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WILD ASSES 


BY 

JAMES G. DUNTON 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 






Copyright, 1925 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
(Incorporated) J 



Printed in the United States of America 


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Cl A 823460 'J 



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PUBLISHERS’ FOREWORD 


It cannot be said that the present much criticized con¬ 
dition of mind of the younger generation is entirely of the 
individual’s own making; thousands of young men, sud¬ 
denly released from the strict military discipline and 
upsetting influences of the trenches and the great training 
camps in this country, returned to college under condi¬ 
tions that have never before been duplicated for their 
disturbing and upsetting qualities; this story deals 
directly with this post-war period of hysteria. The pub¬ 
lishers offer this book as a sympathetic and compre¬ 
hensive treatment of the young mind in its state of flux, 
rendered unstable by the overthrowing of so many estab¬ 
lished conventions as a result of the World War. Written 
by one who was himself an undergraduate during this 
period and who served his country in France, this story, 
while it may astound some of the older generation, can¬ 
not fail to be appreciated by any of the younger. 

In these chapters the author has sought to achieve not 
a vulgarly appealing portrait of unpleasant conditions in 
American life, hut an arrangement of facts in such an 
interesting way as to make an argument for better con¬ 
ditions. With the author s intent in mind, every young 
man and young woman, in or outside of collegiate circles, 
should find in this book a wealth of food for contempla¬ 
tion, and should be better able to analyze and order their 
own attitudes and activities by seeing here their own or 
their friends 9 portraits painted with photographic truth¬ 
fulness. 

Of the many novels recently published dealing with 
college life the publishers feel that none achieves such a 
sympathetic attitude toward, or such a penetrating insight 
into the mental reactions of the huge undergraduate body 
that exists in the United States. Seeking for experiences 
y 


VI 


PUBLISHERS’ FOREWORD 


on one’s own behalf and coming to one’s own conclusions 
is a quality forever characteristic of youth, which fact 
was never better exemplified than in the period with 
which this story deals. After the inevitable apprentice¬ 
ship in the school of learning whose curricula are at this 
time unusually hard, comes a final dawning in the minds 
of the characters of this novel of a proper sense of values, 
which forms a psychological study remarkably true to 
life. 

The fact that the name of a much loved alma mater of 
thousands of men is mentioned throughout the story 
should indicate only that the restless searchings of the 
modern youth herein depicted are general and that this 
great University, which gathers its sons from the four 
corners of the world, must he considered as a cosmopoli¬ 
tan city, merely the locale in which the action of the 
story is laid. This setting and the situations laid against 
it must be taken as representative of American college 
life in general and not as features peculiar to this par¬ 
ticular setting. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PACK 

I. Origins.. 

Table Manners. 3 

The House of Bratten.5 

Thomas Alfred Riley.13 

Jean Louis Beauvais.17 

Pickett and Brocker.21 

II. Academia Post Bellum .... 26 

Through Freshman Eyes .... 28 

Galoshes and Other Matters .... 43 

Jubilee.50 

At the Quarter-Post.58 

III. The Age of Omniscience .... 64 

The Gathering of the Gang .... 66 

Relativity.74 

IV. Types and Exceptions.98 

Woman, Woman, Rules us Still ... 99 

A Female Monkey-Wrench . . . 117 

Distance Lends—.122 

Key Hunting.130 

What Means this Tumult in a Vestal’s Veins? 137 

Seven Tutors and One Pupil . . . 145 

vii 







viii 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

“You Can Lead The Brat to Liquor—•” . 165 

To Love Her was a Liberal Education . 189 

Matters of Opinion.198 

Current Criticism.206 

Culture: Sunburn or Tanned? . . . 220 

0 Education! What Sins are Committed— 230 

A Little Consequence.234 

Dartonville Revisited.239 

V. The Last Long Mile.247 

A Few Topics of Interest .... 248 

“The Female of the Species—” . . . 251 

Illusion.272 

Blood Sometimes Tells.284 

Applied Psychology.289 

The Boomerang.299 

Subconscious Anticipation .... 302 

On the Temper of the Times . . . 306 

What Men Live By.313 

We Subjects of the Goddess Fear! One 

Way of Learning.316 

Depart to Serve Better your Fellow Men . 324 

VI. Changing Times?.331 




Truly this is the hey-day of the wild ass! This much- 
vaunted freedom, this untrammeled liberty, this mad 
folly of independence, this screaming dance around the 
three little cold-cream idols of inalienable rights, “Life, 
Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness,” this helter-skelter 
machine age of unleashed inhibitions and no morals, this 
ruinous “every man for himself ’ rage! 


The wild ass—and he is legion!—suffers from mental 
gout and spiritual thirst; he knows too much and feels 
too little, lives too fast, seeking emotional and spiritual 
satisfactions which, as Faust learned, are not to be got by 
any process but existence with and for men. The doc¬ 
trine of individual freedom and liberty is futile in its ex¬ 
tremes, and has been proved a million times unsatisfying 
and ineffectual—it has, as is apparent in this day and 
age, but given greater opportunities for the wild ass to 
groiv wilder. 

There is a theory that history runs in cycles, and 
according to that theory the present post-war mania for 
excitement is merely transitory, and will be superseded 
by a reversion toward the other extreme, formality and 
restraint, such as characterized the age of Queen Victoria. 


Must we drag along in the hope that the cycle will 
operate, that we will find ourselves gradually tightening 
our system and heightening the pyramid of worthy ideals 
which has been so utterly flattened in the past ten years? 








Enter to grow in “Wisdom”! 

You sons and daughters of middle-class America! 

Rich and poor—brilliant and dumb — 

Sophisticates and Innocents — 

Come one! Come all! 

Come, Blunderbrats and Wild Asses! 

Bask in the beams from Learning’s light. 

And be culturally sunburned, if you can’t be tanned. 

But ask not—lest you not have—the Price of Learning! 









WILD ASSES 


CHAPTER I 
ORIGINS 
Table Manners 

Scene: A Table in a Freshman Dining Hall 
Time: Late September, 1919 

Five young fellows, apparently known to one another, 
were seated at an end of the table; there were two vacant 
chairs at their end. A negro waiter served soup to the 
five; the soup was a dark brown concoction with lumps 
of yellow egg in it — it looked much as rusty-piped water 
would look, if it had chunks of yellow egg in it. The 
serving was accompanied by a chorus of timely com¬ 
ments apropos of the substance in the bowls. Many 

of the comments beginning with, “ This reminds me-” 

ended in much laughter. 

Before the five had consumed their delectable rations 
of the dark brown mixture, a fair-haired youth entered the 
dining room and came to the unoccupied chairs near the 
five friends. He was particularly youthful and imma¬ 
ture, a very nice-looking boy, his fastidious manner and 
studiedly frowsy hair indicating that perhaps he was of a 
delicate, poetic nature — he looked the part of a well- 
cultivated aesthete. 

Just as the Poetic Nature sat down, the young man 
beside whom he found himself looked him over from the 
corner of his eye, smiled to his friends across the table 
and said, “ Have you ever heard the story about the 
French lady who kept a gilded palace of sin and shame 
near one of the American camps in France?” 

3 


4 


WILD ASSES 


The speaker was a dark-haired, older-looking chap 
named Riley, and there was a devilish twinkle in his 
eye as he propounded his inquiry. 

Across the table, a ruddy-cheeked fellow, with black 
hair and skin the color of an Indian’s, began to laugh 
and consume his soup with more rapidity, as if he were 
anxious to finish it before the story was told. Beside 
him, a fair-haired man of Riley’s age, with clean-cut 
features and eyes which seemed to say that their owner, 
at some time or other had been through hell, smiled and 
looked toward the young innocent, the Poetic Nature, to 
whom the dusky servitor was just then bringing soup. 

“ Shoot, Riley,” said this man, whose name was 
Brocker, “ let’s hear it! Pickett and Bratten haven’t 
heard that one yet!” He referred to the other two mem¬ 
bers of their company of friends. 

“ Oh, heck, you fellows, have a heart!” This from the 
young one called Pickett. 

But Riley proceeded, with a solemnity bom of long 
practice, and a choice of words to fit the delicate situ¬ 
ations of the story that indicated his having been in the 
recent war. With descriptive flourishes and sinking 
emphasis upon the most unsavory bits of the story, he 
told it, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

The others listened, all smiling and surreptitiously 
watching the Poetic Nature, who was endeavoring to 
consume his soup, that same dark brown mixture. 

When the end of the story came — and it ended with 
an almost unstomachable piece of realism — the Poetic 
Nature pushed his plate of soup slowly from him, slid 
back his chair, made several grimaces away from his 
neighbors, and left the dining hall, amid a chorus of 
raucous laughter and jeering comments. 

“ Oh, these tender natures!” cried Brocker, clicking his 
knife against his glass to attract the attention of a lazy- 
looking negro standing near. 

“ How about a little service here, Anthony?” barked 
Riley, as he- 


ORIGINS 


5 


(But first, let’s see more closely who were and whence 
came these' five friends, whose rude talk so upset the 
Poetic Nature.) 

The House of Bratten 

A hundred and thirty years or so ago, a few white 
men crossed the mountains from Pennsylvania, and set 
up a trading post on a little river in southern Ohio, 
which trading post became rather important in the life 
of that region, and was known to all the Indian tribes 
within a radius of a hundred miles. The Indians, for 
obvious reasons, called the place Whiskey Switch, and it 
was for a time true that the chief enterprise of the little 
community had to do with the switching off of liquor 
from white men’s caches to red-skinned stomachs. With¬ 
in a few years, however, Ohio was admitted to the 
Union, and the powers that were selected a site not far 
from Whiskey Switch on which to build the State 
capitol, the result of this selection being that the popu¬ 
lar Indian bartering-place began to change its character 
toward more conventional and respectable standards, 
whiskey becoming a side line rather than the main sup¬ 
port. Eventually even the name of the post became 
too unsavory in sound, and without much controversy 
the name was changed to Dartonville, in memory of 
one of the first citizens of Whiskey Switch in its palmy 
days, who had been dead long enough to be hated by 
no one, and was therefore memorialisable. 

After a time Dartonville began to grow up, like so 
many towns along that line of the western expansion, 
and became the center of a population whose chief works 
were more or less agricultural and civilized. A stage¬ 
coach line connected the village with its neighbors, and 
the river was employed for a limited amount of trans¬ 
portation to points north and south of Dartonville. As 
the years rolled on, more New England pilgrims came 
and settled in or near the town, trade and life in general 
flourished, Dartonville thrived and grew. 


6 


WILD ASSES 


The Bratten name stood high in Dartonville, its stand¬ 
ing being the result of the efforts of two generations of 
Brattens, who had succeeded in making a comfortable 
income and a good name for the family by dealing in 
“ Hay and Grain ” (as the sign over the livery stable 
suggested). About the time of the World’s Fair in 
Chicago, the family was one of the most prominent in the 
city, from a social as well as from a business standpoint. 
The Brattens were well established, in the manner so well 
known to every one who ever had the good fortune to 
live for any length of time in a not over-large city. 

Mrs. Bratten, however, was of the kind never satis¬ 
fied with existing honors or with things as they are. 
She longed for greater and larger fields of honor, for 
more worlds to conquer, and she longed with such ener¬ 
getic longing that her unfortunate husband worked him¬ 
self to death in a vain attempt to give her the means of 
conquering all the worlds to which she aspired. His 
death left her with an income ample for all reasonable 
needs for herself and her two children, a daughter, who 
was about seven years of age at the time, and a son, 
aged five. The children were so small that Mrs. Brat- 
ten’s insatiable ambition is to be wondered at; it is in¬ 
credible that any woman with two young children could 
be so ambitious. But she was, and in spite of it found 
more than sufficient time for her children, as will shortly 
be seen. 

Her attention, aside from that directed upon her two 
young hopefuls, was given entirely to the business of 
reforming, to which cause, or causes, she gave generously 
of her name, time and money. In her eyes the world 
was all wrong and, by concession of authority from some 
divinity, she felt it to be her duty to rectify all the stark, 
staring evils which confronted her. She was her brother’s 
keeper, often in spite of the brother. Needless to say, 
she belonged, in most cases in an official capacity, to 
every woman’s society and club within striking distance 
of Dartonville, and as head of the Woman’s Christian 


ORIGINS 


7 


Temperance Union in her locality she had not a friend 
among the bartenders of the city. One cafe owner, who 
was more or less of a student of society, contemptuously 
described her as “ an infernal pest, a confirmed med¬ 
dler, trying to become famous by minding other people’s 
business!” Which was, in truth, an adequate description 
of the lady in question. 

At any rate, Mrs. Bratten became a leader among 
women, and was in a fair way of gaining that prominence 
to which she so ardently aspired. Yet she found time, as 
most such women do, to raise her children as according 
to her lights they should be raised. Lois Bratten, the 
daughter, required less of her attention than did the 
little brother Charles, for Lois at an early age showed 
marked tendencies toward doing things aesthetic and 
self-sufficient, and when she had come to high-school age 
had very artistic leanings — in fact, she tottered per¬ 
ceptibly more frequently than not, according to the 
neighbors and friends. Most people, in strict confidence 
among themselves, called her “ dizzy,” and even her 
mother was forced to admit that “ Lois is so unlike other 
girls! Really eccentric almost to the point of genius.” 
Lois was truly an unusual girl. 

Little Brother Bratten was at once the object of ridicule, 
pity, kind advice, loving consideration, sisterly shame 
and maternal pride. He also was an unusual child — 
unusual in the sense that he was one of those awkward 
individuals who have suffered so beautifully as rare 
specimens for study and experimentation in both psy¬ 
chology and physiology, it being, it seemed, a cause 
of pride to his mother that he had thus served the cause 
of two sciences. But even the most modern methods of 
treatment for bodily awkwardness and mental backward¬ 
ness were of little avail in Brother’s case, for which the 
chief reason lay in the fact that if the treatment pre¬ 
scribed did not happen to meet the taste of the young 
hero, he was, with mild rebukes of course, relieved of 
the prescription. His fond parent’s adoring attention 


8 


WILD ASSES 


and considerateness functioned at all times — she catered 
to his every whim, with the result that all the learned 
doctors in the world could not have helped the child. 
It was after the discovery of some of these counteracting 
home remedies that one of the most eminent of American 
psychologists and mental hygienists was heard to exclaim, 
with much feeling, “0 Mother Love! What sins are 
committed in thy name!” thereupon giving up the job 
and the prospect of a large fee, for, in the estimation 
of the child’s mother, he was hopelessly damned for¬ 
evermore. 

Bratten, however, grew up in spite of these ineffectual 
attempts at scientific treatment and of the spoiling 
attentions of his mother. He graduated, in over-due 
course of time, from the top stage of infancy, and began 
to develop, chronologically at least, albeit without many 
indications of improvement either in mind or body. He 
grew and grew, and then grew some more, regardless of 
the fact that none of the neighbors or family friends were 
ever able to explain how he managed to live so long 
under the smothering influence and care of his mother. 
Naturally, they all joined in judging him to be “ a hope¬ 
lessly spoiled kid;” but this opinion was not wholly 
just. Admittedly Brother Bratten was quite unlike his 
playmates in every way — almost, in that one outstand¬ 
ing characteristic was always obvious: however awkward 
and stupid he appeared, his desires were invariably 
those of the average normal boy of his age, and his 
troubles arose from the fact that unlike the other boys 
he could not seem to organize his faculties and powers 
to the end of satisfying his desires. And worst of all! 
he blundered by failing to act terribly heartbroken by his 
defeats and failures. This latter characteristic was prac¬ 
tically unpardonable in the eyes of all, in view of the 
common habit of boys to act rather badly when dis¬ 
appointed in something or deprived of some expected or 
anticipated pleasure. Nevertheless, Brother appeared 
not to trouble himself in the least with what he missed 


ORIGINS 


9 


in life, and went serenely on his blundering way. Thus 
do we find at a very early age a redeeming feature in 
the makeup of this otherwise hope-depressing lad. 

Still folks called him “spoiled,” and in course of 
time a choice variety of uncomplimentary nicknames 
were attached to him, each one descriptive of some phase 
of the general awkwardness which was peculiar to him. 
All of which he survived without visible ill-effects, until 
one day (he was old enough to roller skate) he came 
home from playing with the boys in a neighboring yard 
and abruptly asked his mother, “ What’s a brat?” where¬ 
upon Mrs. Bratten, unable to answer definitely, demanded 
to know where he had heard such a term, and learned 
that her dear offspring had been called “ brat ” by no less 
a person than Mrs. Carr, the lady who ran the select 
gentlemen’s boarding house on the next comer. The 
fond parent was distracted and enraged; she literally 
“ hit the roof,” and proceeded to make such an indiscreet 
fuss and furor about this incident that within a few hours 
the entire neighborhood was solidly agreed that “ Brat ” 
was the best name that could be found for poor little 
Brother. Thenceforth he was called Brat by every one 
who knew him, and gradually came to take the cognomen 
for granted. 

So as Brat Bratten he continued to exist, much to 
the ingrown disgust of his mother and the shame of his 
sister, until he went away to an exclusive school to 
prepare for college. Then what the home folks had been 
unable to determine in his sixteen years, the over-wise 
and observant new schoolmates quickly decided. It was 
left for a dubiously clever novitiate in a German class to 
use, after surveying Brat’s discouragingly futile efforts 
in various directions, the one word in the English lan¬ 
guage most fitting and appropriate to the unfortunate 
Brat. “ Blundering ” was the word, and in short order 
“ Blunderbrat,” having the special virtue of a Germanic 
sound, became young Bratten’s name. The recipient of 
this honor, in his blundering wisdom, docilely took on 


10 


WILD ASSES 


the ready-made title, and proceeded to live up to its two 
literal meanings with remarkable success, this being the 
first real success of his young life. 

Throughout the time spent at that school he was known 
by no other name than Blunderbrat, and so truly did he 
seem not to mind it that eventually it became a term of 
endearment and friendly greeting, which carried no 
odium at all. Brat blundered along on his uncaring 
way, played football a little because he was a husky 
boy, swam a little, tried to do something in track and 
baseball, became a not very good student but a moder¬ 
ately well-liked member of the. school community, did 
or tried to do everything that he was supposed to do 
(according to his earlier formed habits) and evaded or 
tried to evade doing anything that was counter to his 
inclinations. He learned but little, but seemed to get 
ahead just the same, and came down to Cambridge in the 
late summer after his graduation from the school, with 
a pretty fair notion of what he wanted and how to get 
it. 

He wanted to get into Harvard (chiefly because his 
mother had talked Harvard to him since he was a mud- 
pie baker) and his way into Harvard led through that 
famous tutoring school at Harvard Square, “ The 
Widow’s.” With a little extra treatment and attention, 
the tutors pulled him through his exams, and he found 
himself, the Blunderbrat, a member in good standing in 
the oldest and most revered of American colleges. Being 
himself, he was not in the least surprised or elated over 
his success, where so many others whom he knew had 
failed. 

Nor was his mother surprised. She accepted his 
progress into that great institution where 44 the Crimson 
in triumph flashes,” as a matter of course — there had 
never been a doubt in her mind but that Brother would 
be admitted; she had always counted upon it as a fact. 
So the business of reforming went on without inter¬ 
ruption, except for the brief pauses in which Mrs. Brat- 


ORIGINS 11 

ten took occasion to pilot the course of their domestic 
affairs. 

“ Brother boy,” said she, just before the young hero 
departed to take up residence in Cambridge, “ you are 
quite a man now, so act as a man should! I know you 

will, but-” and she went on to recount all the 

maternal worries which sometimes occupied her mind, 
including the dangers from lewd and lascivious women, 
liquor-drinking men, and bad companions in general. 
“ And don’t forget Ellen,” she added, as if the mere 
mention of Ellen’s name were enough to clinch her 
argument. “ If you just remember to play fair with 
Ellen, who will be waiting for you, you will never do 
wrong!” And her son quite agreed with her. 

He quite agreed with her — the vision of Ellen would 
surely keep him straight, if anything would, for Ellen, 
whose full name was Ellen Louise Carver, was by all the 
standards of conduct and ancestry the first young lady of 
Dartonville, the daughter of wealthy old Colonel Carver, 
one of Ohio’s most prominent Republicans (in a county 
of Democrats) and descendant of a long, traceable line 
of aristocrats, born to the blood somewhere in Cromwell’s 
England. Ellen was as aristocratic as she could be 
and still live in Dartonville. Her friends were few 
and well chosen, and Brat’s mother had been more than 
pleased with the arrangement which Mrs. Carver and she 
had always more or less taken for granted — namely, 
that Brother and Ellen would some day join hands and 
hearts to carry on the traditions of the two old families. 
To Brat this arrangement had always seemed quite all 
right — he accepted his election to this office in the same 
spirit as he accepted everything else in life, and he did 
what he was supposed to do in cultivating Ellen’s friend¬ 
ship, and cementing their relationship in many little 
ways. 

Brat liked Ellen, and Ellen liked Brat, but there had 
been few thoughts of love in the mind of either. To 
Brat, the whole business of being sentimental was absurd 



12 


WILD ASSES 


and foolish, and he never doubted but that Ellen’s little 
sentimental sallies were more affected than real, for he 
thought that she would naturally feel toward the matter 
as he did. Ellen, however, felt differently; she liked Brat 
very much, and she was aristocrat enough to appreciate 
the responsibilities of their position and the desirability 
of their marrying, but she was not so sweetly simple and 
altogether puppetish that she failed to have the normal 
girl’s little sentimentalities. She often wanted Brat to 
act more like a lover than a paid companion — she 
wanted some romance in the affair, realizing the while 
that Brat was utterly incapable of things romantic. Yet 
she continued in her efforts to make him so. 

“Now, Brother,” she said, when Brat came to say 
good-by to her upon the occasion of his leaving for 
Cambridge, “ you’ll write to me? You’ll answer every 
letter? You’ll not forget and go out on parties with 
your friends? You’ll be absolutely true and faithful all 
the time until you come back to me?” Ellen twined her 
arms about her big man’s ‘ shoulders, and asked these 
questions with an affectation of deep feeling over his 
impending departure from Dartonville. She knew what 
his answer would be. 

“ Of course, Ellen,” Brat replied, impatiently, after the 
manner of the brusque man that he was. “ Don’t be 
foolish — of course I’ll remember everything, and you 
know I never go to parties anyway! And I’ll answer 
every one of your letters — I’ll write just as often and 
as long as you do, so don’t worry!” Brat always felt 
uncomfortable whenever he found himself in a situation 
having in it elements of amative warmth. Much as he 
thought of Ellen, he was impatient to be gone. 

But Ellen made him promise many things, very 
solemnly and very self-irritatingly, before she gave him 
the final farewell kiss and embrace which sent him off 
to the train. 

Yes, Ellen would keep any man straight, thought Brat 
to himself, en route to the railroad station. But girls 


ORIGINS 


13 


were such darned crazy things — always thinking of 
something unnecessary — still, he supposed, Ellen would 
be as fine a wife as any other girl, so why worry about 
it. And so, being himself, he didn’t worry or even think 
about it, until it came time to write to her from Cam¬ 
bridge. 


Thomas Alfred Riley 

“So you’re Bratten, eh?” demanded the tall, dark¬ 
eyed youth who welcomed Brat to the rooms which he was 
to occupy for the coming year. Brat had burst in, tired 
from his over-night journey from Ohio, scarcely wonder¬ 
ing at all as to whom he would have for roommates. 
He knew that the suite in Persis Smith Hall was a three- 
man suite, but in typical Brat fashion he had not stopped 
to consider the possibilities in this regard. Now, accosted 
by this chap, who looked several years his elder — looked 
more like a senior, thought Brat — he was only able to 
answer in a laconic affirmative, staring the while at this 
man who apparently was to be his roommate, judging 
from the air of possession with which he surveyed the 
study with its desks and chairs and bare walls. 

“So you’re Bratten?” continued Riley. “Well, I’m 
Tom Riley, and you and I might as well get acquainted, 
because we’re going to have to put up with each other for 
about ten months, from this moment henceforth, as it 
were.” He walked over and extended his hand to the 
newcomer, exclaiming, “ I’m damned glad to meet you, 
and I hope we get along 0. K.” 

“ Same here,” assented Brat, taking the outstretched 
hand and squeezing it more than was necessary, while he 
looked about the room, anxious to get settled. 

“ I’m all set,” Riley went on, “ moved in yesterday. 
So maybe I can help you get straightened around.” 

“ Yes,” agreed Brat again, throwing off his coat and 
hat. “ My trunk will be out sometime this afternoon, 
and these bags are all full of junk that must be put some- 


14 


WILD ASSES 


where; have we any bureaus or dressers or cupboards 
or anything else to put things into?” 

“ Sure,” laughed Riley, “ there’s a bureau in your bed¬ 
room — it’ll hold about three collars and a dozen hand¬ 
kerchiefs if you’re careful! They don’t seem to be over- 
generous with the furnishings down here, do they?” 

“I should say not — from the looks of it,” returned 
Brat, as he started into the adjoining bedroom. 

Riley stood looking at the door through which he had 
vanished. “ Seems like a good kid,” he said to himself; 
“ has prep school written all over him from hat to toes, 
but may not be so bad after all.” 

Riley’s first impression of his roommate was really satis¬ 
factory. He liked young Bratten’s looks— and Riley 
was one of the kind which judges much by appearances 
and by first impressions. “ First impressions,” his old 
father had said to him many times, “ are the thing! If 
you go on your first impression, or first impulse, you’ll 
do the best thing every time!” And his son had come to 
agree with this principle. So he thought to himself, after 
this first meeting with his new companion, wondering 
about many things but instinctively taking a friendly atti¬ 
tude toward Brat. 

Riley wondered just how different this boy would really 
be from himself — apparently, Bratten was from an en¬ 
tirely different mould, a plutocrat probably, from one of 
the tony prep schools — well, if so, he woqM be entirely 
different from Tom Riley. 

For Riley had none of the background which Bratten’s 
very appearance and manner indicated. Riley came from 
good old Irish stock, of the highest order — as he often 
said, “All the Irish were kings, so we’re all of royal 
blood!” His father, however, had not had the good 
fortune to be able to carry on in the kingly manner, and 
had brought up his family on a carpenter’s wages — and 
carpenters, during the time in which Old Man Riley was 
concerned with the business of raising a family, were not 
the commanding financiers that post-war conditions have 


ORIGINS 


15 


set them up to be. Consequently young Tom had not had 
all the “advantages” of education, social position and 
allied affairs of youthful existence. He had attended the 
public schools, had gone to work as a telegraph messenger 
before he entered high school, and had bought his own 
clothes and helped a little at home during the high school 
period. The spring of his graduation had seen the United 
States throwing itself into the Great War, and it had re¬ 
quired the most extreme measures on Old Man Riley’s 
part to keep his son in school until graduation, after which 
there was absolutely no restraining him longer, so he en¬ 
listed in the Ambulance Service, and after a few months of 
preparatory training found himself in the north of France. 
In the course of his two years of service he did duty in 
many sectors and in many kinds of work; he had had his 
share of the so-called horrors and pleasures of the busi¬ 
ness of war, and had, by the time of his discharge at the 
age of twenty, been directed by the heavy hand of disci¬ 
pline into doing everything, from emptying rank G. I. cans 
and peeling potatoes by the bushel, to bearing bloody 
stretchers and rendering first aid to less fortunate crea¬ 
tures, even to bartering with Parisian “ petites,” who 
accepted pieces of soap and cigarettes as mediums of 
exchange. He had gone through the best and the worst of 
the war and had escaped unscathed, except for a few 
periods of sickness following some unavoidable rendez¬ 
vous with gas bomb and pieces of shrapnel; he came 
back to the States to all appearances hale and hearty, 
but for many months after leaving the service his move¬ 
ments and his peace of mind were handicapped by spells 
of physical torments, the cause of which lay in his experi¬ 
ences in France. 

Then he came to Harvard. As he put it, “ Uncle Sam 
is the best damned uncle any man could have!” For 
Uncle Sam, mindful of the condition of ill-health and 
unrest prevailing among his erstwhile warriors, assumed 
the burden of repaying, in part at least, the debt which he 
owed to the many disabled veterans, by giving these men 


16 


WILD ASSES 


an opportunity to go to school and college, and so better 
equip themselves for the struggle of life. Much to Old 
Man Riley’s profane gratitude, his son was one of the 
first to benefit by Uncle Sam’s offer. So he came to 
Harvard; but for the life of him, he could not explain 
exactly what he expected to gain by this. For the time 
being, he was satisfied with his being there, exposed to 
the higher educative processes for which John Harvard’s 
gift to New England has become famous; in due time, he 
felt, he would begin to learn something of value and 
would become sufficiently interested in some profession 
to want to make it his life work. For the time being, he 
was content to live and engage in the usual trivialities 
of pursuing fleeting happiness. 

So he stood in the study of their rooms in Smith Hall, 
and waited for his just-met roommate to reappear; but 
Brat did not return to satisfy his curiosity until he had 
satisfactorily disposed of his clothing, and arranged his 
bedroom to suit his tastes. Appearing finally in shirt¬ 
sleeves and with tousled hair, he smiled broadly at the 
Irishman, now sitting in a small-town sheriff pose with 
hat over eyes and feet on desk. 

“Where do you hail from, Bratten?” asked Riley, 
casually. 

“ Ohio,” answered Brat. 

“No — I mean, what school?” pursued the other; to 
which query Brat finally replied by giving the name of 
the exclusive school for boys with much wealth and 
lots of family which has made its small-town locality 
renowned throughout the East. Riley acted not at all 
awed by the announcement, but when Brat asked, with¬ 
out intentional sarcasm, “ Do you know anyone up 
there?” the Irishman had to cough before he could 
answer in the negative by saying, “No — guess not — 
don’t know many fellows in school the last couple of 
years — been in the army and sort of lost track of all my 
friends.” 

Brat said nothing to this, and Riley fished in his 


ORIGINS 


17 


pockets for a cigarette, offered one to Brat, was surprised 
at his refusal, and lighted one for himself. Blowing 
a lungful of smoke from his nose and mouth, he pro¬ 
ceeded to ask many questions aimed towards learning 
more about his roommate, but Brat was non-committal, 
and Riley was forced to rely upon his surmises instead of 
information such as Brat should have offered. At last the 
question “Would you like a drink of rare old cognac?” 
brought such a prompt refusal from Brat that Riley, 
feeling that he had done more than his share toward 
breaking the ice, decided to keep still and go his own 
way. Which he did — although he and Brat talked over 
the problems of how and where to register, pay their 
college bills, open accounts, buy books and attend classes, 
and Brat seemed not distant or uppish at all during 
these discussions. However, Riley spent many moments 
in studying his roommate, for there was much that baffled 
him in this young fellow, who seemed to want to be 
friendly, but also appeared to want to stay his distance. 

Jean Louis Beauvais 

Their unknown roommate, the third occupant of the 
suite, did not put in an appearance until the following 
day, when Brat and Riley returned from the College Office 
to find a picture of dejection gracing the top of the small 
desk in the study. At first sight, Riley thought he must be 
a large man, his head and shoulders indicating that he 
was strong, muscular, and well set-up; but when he slid 
lightly from the desk and stood on the floor, he surprised 
the Irishman by being much too short to fit the previous 
impression. 

“ My name is Beauvais,” he announced, extending his 
hand and smiling broadly, in such a way that Riley at 
once decided upon liking this newcomer. 

Brat replied to the greeting, as did Riley, and soon the 
three were talking things over much as if they had known 
one another since childhood. 


18 


WILD ASSES 


“ Gee-ripes,” exclaimed the newcomer, after much dis¬ 
cussion had brought them to the subject of his tardiness. 
“ I almost didn’t get here at all! Went to Montreal from 
home, expecting to stay a couple of days — got into a 
little card game on the day I was supposed to leave, and 
lost damned near everything I had; it took me three days 
to recover enough to come down here, but here I am broke 
but happy!” He laughed heartily, as if the whole pro¬ 
cedure of going broke and being barely able to get to 
College in time for registration were a matter of no im¬ 
portance, but merely humorous. Brat saw nothing funny 
in the idea, but he smiled sympathetically. Riley thought 
it a good joke, similar in many respects to situations in 
which he had himself figured, so he could smile with 
real sympathy at Beauvais’ story. 

“ I haven’t even got enough money to get my trunk 
shipped out from North Station!” laughed Beauvais. 
“ And all my clothes are in it, except a couple of dirty 
shirts and a pair of knickers in my bag there!” 

“ Gee, that’s tough! ” agreed Riley, and then added, 
“ I can let you have a couple of dollars, if that will help 
any.” He dug into his hip pocket, pulling out a well- 
worn wallet, and handed Beauvais two crisp dollar bills, 
almost before the latter had had time to answer his offer. 

“ I’m sure much obliged to you,” said the short chap, 
accepting the proffered bills and straightening his hat 
preparatory to going out for his trunk. 

“ Oh, hell — everyone goes broke once in a while — 
I know how it is!” Riley laughed. “I’ll walk along 
with you; maybe I can help you.” 

“ Sure — come on,” answered the little man, and the 
two went out laughing, throwing a “See you later!” in 
Brat’s direction. 

Soon after their departure, Brat’s attention was diverted 
from his work at his desk by the appearance of a boy 
whom he had known at prep school. 

“ Hi, Brat! ” this man exclaimed, bursting into the 
room. “ Noticed on the room list that you’re living here, 


ORIGINS 


19 


so thought I’d stop in for a call! How are you? Did 
you have a good summer?” 

“ Fine, Pick,” answered Brat, smiling genially. “ Went 
home this summer for a while, then came down here to 
The Wid’s for a few weeks. Everything’s fine by me! 
How about yourself?” 

“ Oh — fair enough,” replied the other, glancing 
around the room and adding, “Who’s living with you? 
And where’s all your furniture?” 

“Why — ” began Brat, “I don’t know just what’s 
going on here yet. Am living with a fellow named Riley 
and another named Beauvais — don’t know much about 
them. We haven’t thought about fixing up this place;— 
looks as if it needed some furniture or something, doesn’t 
it?” 

“ Lord, yes;— I spent a hundred dollars on fixings for 
my room.” 

“ Where are you living?” 

“ Why — right across the hall from you — living with 
that fellow with the bad leg, Brocker — you’ve seen him 
around probably?” 

“No — don’t think so — where does he come from?” 

“ Oh, he’s a disabled veteran — lost his leg in France. 
Seems like a nice fellow.” The visitor was apparently 
proud of his being thus honored by a hero’s company, and 
acted as if he expected Brat to be impressed. 

But Brat failed to register any such feeling, his next 
remark being, “It sure will be good to have you right 
across the hall — seem more like home being near some¬ 
one you know.” 

“But how about these roommates of yours?” insisted 
the other. “Where do they hail from?” 

“ Don’t know exactly,” answered Brat. “ Riley just 
got out of the army, I guess, from the way he talks — be¬ 
fore that he went to some public school. This other 
fellow, Beauvais, just got here today — comes from down 
Maine somewhere near Canada — he’s a French-Canadian, 
I guess. They’re both all right, I guess.” Brat’s state- 


20 


WILD ASSES 


ment was made in such a tone as to imply grave doubts 
about the verity of his guessing. 

“ Well — it’s a good thing we’re going to be so close 
to each other. Won’t mind the hoi polloi so much,” 
laughed his companion. “ Oh, by the way — you’re 
going out for Freshman football, aren’t you?” 

“ Oh, sure — I suppose so.” 

“ Well, there’s a meeting to-night about it — you’d best 
go read the notices in the dining hall. I’m going out for 
the Crimson and the Lampoon, and I think I can make a 
managership in football, if I can find time to do it. I’m 
going to try it anyway.” 

“ That ought to keep you busy all right.” 

“ Well — everyone tells me that’s the thing to do — 
get started right — do everything you can your first year 
and you will have easy sledding from then on, so I’m 
going to go out for everything from football manager¬ 
ship to debating! Ought to make a couple of them any¬ 
way ! ” 

“Gad!” laughed Brat. “Don’t go out for debating! 
That’s beyond the pale here,— nobody but the Jews go 
out for that, according to what I’ve been told.” 

“ That so?” the other rejoined, much interested. “ I’ll 
chase around and ask Mark Wooding about it before I 
try out for it then; it doesn’t come until later anyway, 
so we should worry right now.” 

“ And they tell me you want to do everything possible 
in the football manager competition — you have to work 
like hell to make the grade.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind that; you just have to do everything 
they tell you to do, and you have a chance to meet all the 
big football men; knowing them comes in handy, I should 
think.” 

“ Yes,— they say that’s the way to get along here.” 

“Well, I’m not worried about not getting along!” the 
other stated, with a suddenly assumed air of independ¬ 
ence. “ I don’t care a damned bit about that part of it; 
but one must do something, you know.” 


ORIGINS 


21 


Yes, Brat knew that one must do something, but he also 
knew, as he said to himself, that the fellow who had just 
voiced his uncaring disregard for “ getting along ” would 
be the hardest of all workers in that particular line, for 
Brat knew what he had done at school by the same meth¬ 
ods. He merely smiled knowingly, therefore, and the 
talk soon drifted to other topics until finally the visitor 
took his leave, saying that he would drop in later that 
night to see the roommates whom Brat had drawn. 

Scott Stewart Brocker 

AND 

Winslow Twickenham Pickett III 

Early in the evening Brat left his room to make a social 
call upon some school friends who lived in Gore Hall, 
which is located on the Riverway, the furthermost one of 
the three huge Freshman dormitories. After his leaving, 
Riley and his companion remained in the study smoking 
and talking about many things, including Montreal,. 
New York, beer, wine, cider and Italian red wine, but 
never mentioning at all the subject of courses of study 
or other matters pertaining to their impending college 
career. Suddenly their happy story-telling was inter¬ 
rupted by a knock on the door, which when opened re¬ 
vealed the figure of a blond youth of exceptionally dean 
features and with a smile on his lips that was very win¬ 
ning. “ Hello!” he said, still smiling. 

“Hello!” replied Riley, while Beauvais sat silent. 
“Come in!” continued Riley. 

The stranger came in, stepping with such a noticeable 
limp that both Riley and Beauvais were fascinated by his 
walk across the room to a chair. Arrived there and 
throwing out the leg which apparently caused the limp, 
he sat down heavily and removed his hat, then said, “ My 
name’s Brocker — my roommate told me a little while 
ago that one of you fellows went to school with him — 
Bratten, he said!” 


22 


WILD ASSES 


“ There are three of us — Bratten isn’t here now — did 
you want to see him about something?” Riley wanted to 
know this man better and was much relieved when the 
other answered. 

“ Oh, no — I just wanted to get acquainted with you,” 
he said. “ I live with Pickett, across the hall — and Pickett 
said he knew Bratten, so I came over to get acquainted. 
What’s your name?” 

“ Mine’s Riley,” replied the Irishman, “ and this is 
Beauvais.” 

“Well, mine’s Brocker, and I’m glad to meet you both!” 
He started to get up in order to shake hands, but finally 
sat back again, saying, “ You’ll excuse me, but I’ve got 
a game leg here and the damned thing doesn’t work any 
too well!” 

“ Nothing worse than bum pins!” exclaimed Beauvais, 
sympathetically. 

“Well, I’ve only got one!” laughed Brocker, hitting 
his bad leg with his knuckles, causing a crack which sent 
shivers up and down Riley’s spine. 

“ What’s the matter with it?” asked the Irishman, as 
he offered a cigarette to the visitor. 

“ Not much,” answered the other with a laugh, “ not 
much now — except that it’s artificial!” He laughed 
again, and then, noticing the obvious discomfort of his 
hosts, he said, “ Oh, I don’t mind it much — I’m getting 
used to it now — anyway, that isn’t what I came over here 
for. Were you fellows in the army?” 

“Yes,— ambulance corps!” answered Riley. 

“ Navy,” answered Beauvais. “ What were you with?” 

“ Machine gun, Yankee Division.” 

“ Good outfit,” commented Riley. “ They did some 
great work.” 

“Best damned outfit in the army!” declared the other. 
Then with a laugh, “ We won the war!” 

“ Yeh — so did we all, I guess!” laughed Riley. “ But 
we didn’t come through as bad off as you — that’s damned 
tough!” 


ORIGINS 


23 


But Brocker very apparently did not care to discuss his 
case any further, so the conversation shifted to other 
topics of more immediate importance. 

“ Cripes Almighty, I had to get out of my room — 
that’s why I came over here!” Brocker suddenly ex¬ 
plained. “ Young Pickett has been trying to entertain his 
mother in there for the past two hours, and it was unbear¬ 
able ! Gad, that woman ought to be choked — she doesn’t 
even let that kid do his own toilet! ” 

“ Why, what happened?” asked Riley. 

“ Just a mamma’s darling, I guess,” replied Brocker. 
“ She came in and found his desk covered with a La Vie 
Parisienne and a couple of packages of cigarettes and a 
pipe; she hit the roof immediately, and all the kid could 
think of to say was that some of his friends had left the 
stuff there. He swore he never smoked. She had to 
smell his breath before she was satisfied. She must be 
crazy; that kid smokes more cigarettes in a day than I do 
in two; he’s trying to be a regular fellow with the boys, 
and just then she pops in and lights on him like a ton of 
bricks! Lord, I thought he was a hero of many escapades 
by the stuff he’s been telling me, but after listening to his 
mother’s questions for about five minutes I decided that 
he isn’t quite grown up yet. Gad, she had to go through 
all his clothes, look through his bureau drawers and in¬ 
spect the place generally before she’d believe anything he 
told her; and then she came back and delivered a long 
maternal lecture on morals, health and what-not else. 
Cripes! I went into the bathroom to see if there were 
any of those triangular clothes for children hung up 
in there — I didn’t know but what he’d been hiding some¬ 
thing from me too!” 

Riley and Beauvais laughed heartily, and the former 
finally said, “I’d like to meet this kid! I have a good 
picture in my mind right now, just about what he looks 
like, I’d bet!” 

“Me too!” laughed Beauvais. “And this place is full 
of them, I notice.” 


24 


WILD ASSES 


“Yeh,— rosy boys!” muttered Brocker. “You’d think 
this was a kindergarten after a look at some of them!” 

“What’s this fellow’s name?” asked Beauvais, sud¬ 
denly. 

“ Winslow Twickenham Pickett the Third,” answered 
the other. “ Comes from a long line of rare old aristo¬ 
crats, an old New England family of the first water — 
and I think he’s still in the first water! But he seems like 
an intelligent kid at that — he’d be almost human, or as 
much so as one of these products of fashionable finishing 
schools for boys could be, if it weren’t for his mother! 
Cripes, I’d be tempted to slaughter, if my mother chased 
after me like that,— the poor kid don’t know whether he’s 
going or coming when she’s around.” 

So the three fellows talked on, discussing more of 
Winslow Twickenham Pickett’s characteristics, and then 
changing to an explanation, chiefly by Riley, of the 
nature of his other roommate, Bratten, which Riley ended 
by saying, “ He’s sort of funny — modest, bashful, self- 
centred or plain snobbish, so that you can’t tell just 
where or how he stands with you, but he seems to be a 
good fellow, of the usual type which you just described.” 

Shortly after this Brat came in and met Brocker. Both 
appeared to be pleased, and Brat joined in the discussion 
quite easily for some time when he finally bade them all 
good-night and retired. 

About midnight the other three new friends submitted 
to the growing hunger pains within them by going up to 
Jimmie’s lunchroom for a bite to eat, and then back to 
bed. 

“ See you all at breakfast!” was Brocker’s parting com¬ 
ment, and these words became before many nights the 
usual thing, for the occupants of the two rooms in that 
entry of the hall saw one another at breakfast every morn¬ 
ing, and were very much together throughout the days of 
their first fall in Cambridge. The doors to the two suites 
were always open, and no one of the five occupants, ex¬ 
cepting Brat, could ever be certain of where or on whom 


ORIGINS 


25 


he would find his clothes or any of his other possessions; 
the two suites with everything they contained became 
a sort of community before many days had passed. 

“And a hell of a fine family we make!” as Riley put 
it. This was not malapropos of the state of affairs there, 
for the five students thus thrown together were of entirely 
different types and different natures, having different 
backgrounds and different aims in life. Yet there was 
a sort of two-class difference between them; Pickett, 
Bratten and Brocker were of excellent old families with 
high standing names in New England history, and Riley 
and Beauvais were just the opposite. But of the five, 
Riley soon demonstrated that he was by far the clev¬ 
erest; Beauvais was the happiest and most congenial; 
Brocker felt better in the company of these two than in 
that of his two blue-blooded cousins; Pickett, with much 
wealth and an insatiable ambition to “ do things as they 
were done ” in college, exercised his well-developed tal¬ 
ents along many lines of activity aside from studies; and 
Bratten made the most of his knowledge and position, and 
soon got the habit of enjoying the company of every one 
of the other four men in the little community. A fine 
family they made. 























Why come? you ash. Don’t be absurd! 

A rose by any other name may be as sweet, 

But Learning by no other name is so exalted! 

Come to be drunken! 

And as Knowledge is Freedom , 

Be drunken with both—have faith in both! 

And for that faith, your degree shall make you free! 










CHAPTER II 


Academia Post Bellum 

Harvard and her sons served nobly the cause of Free¬ 
dom before the United States entered the World War in 
1917, many illustrious sons — and some not so illustrious 
— gaining high honors and splendid decorations for their 
services to the Allies in aviation, ambulance relief and in 
the famous Foreign Legion of France. During the War, 
the great old Yankee university was turned inside out, and 
all her facilities were utilized for military and naval 
purposes. An army training-school for students intend¬ 
ing to become officers was organized and a radio school 
for naval students was established. These two projects 
were developed with a view toward coordinating as far 
as possible the academic avenues of education with the 
military and naval training programs, but the latter phase 
of wartime Harvard was really of supreme importance 
during the period of its life. 

With the armistice came another upheaval and reor¬ 
ganisation, and an immediate attempt to bring the Uni¬ 
versity back to its pre-war system of work; nevertheless 
the college year of 1918-19 was more or less of a loss 
from the academic point of view, as the second half-year 
allowed but little time for anything other than reorgan¬ 
isation. In order to enable students whose higher edu¬ 
cation had been retarded by the War, to complete their 
degree-requirements with the least possible delay, the 
Summer School of 1919 ran in two sections, thereby 
making it possible for returned students to gain two full 
credits toward their degrees. Cambridge, around Har¬ 
vard Square, was crowded with impatient war veterans 
returned for their college degrees, and with fresh young 
prep-school graduates trying to anticipate part of their 
26 


27 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 

college work by passing courses in the Summer School. 
In the rush of it all, a near approach to pre-War teaching 
conditions was made, and the University was ready for 
the greatest year of its history. 

The incoming Freshman class in the fall of 1919 was 
the first after-the-War class, as such, and the personnel 
of this class, as well as of the College at large at this 
time, was most unusual. When Brat and his friends 
came to Harvard Square in the late summer and early 
fall of 1919, they found a motley assortment of ex¬ 
sailors, ex-soldiers, ex-marines, ex-students, delayed stu¬ 
dents, stuaents aiming toward taking War degrees (on 
a basis of three-fourths college credits and one-fourth War 
service); and students, like Brat, coming in from high 
schools and prep schools to enter college according to 
the usual procedure of examinations. The out-of-course 
war-service candidates for degrees were mixed in with the 
young hoys just come from school; men of twenty-three 
and-four years of age were taking courses with boys of 
seventeen. Many men who before the War would never 
have thought of going to college, but who were taught 
by experience in the army and navy that a college educa¬ 
tion was useful and practical, were admitted to Harvard 
without the customary entrance examinations—some of 
these, indeed most of them, had been out of school 
anywhere from two to seven years. Many were ex- 
service men who had suffered wounds, injuries, disease 
or other disabling misfortunes in the service of their 
country and were being sent to college by the Govern¬ 
ment. Many had come home from the War just in time 
to do duty in Boston during the police-strike, which 
resulted in an immediate recruiting of volunteers to serve 
as protective “Mud Guards” for the distressed city; they 
came to college with the pictures of crap-games on Boston 
Common and window-smashing robberies along Boston’s 
main business thoroughfares so fresh in their minds that 
they were ready to laugh at all serious pretensions, even 
the pretensions of eminent Harvard educators. Many 


28 


WILD ASSES 


had never known how to study, and the rest had quite for¬ 
gotten most of what they once did know about study and 
school life. But old and young, bright and dumb, all were 
thrown together into a sort of melting-pot, so that Har¬ 
vard, and especially what was to be the Class of 1923, con¬ 
tained at that time a rather broad cross-section of Ameri¬ 
can society,— a composite group of would-be and forced- 
to-be students, come to her for the educational tanning 
which every college and university is expected to give all 
comers. 

It is the way of college life that where there is a 
nucleus of congenial minds and a convenient rendezvous, 
there will be a gathering of kindred spirits; and so it 
came about that the five Freshmen, Brat, Riley, Beauvais, 
Pickett and Brocker, formed the nucleus around which a 
crowd gathered. It was an interesting crowd, too, for 
the most part representative of the year at Harvard as de¬ 
scribed above. Their rooms soon were made the “ hang¬ 
out ” for a dozen or fifteen fellows of many tastes and 
varying temperaments, some rich, some poor, some clever, 
some dull witted, some ambitious, some lazy, some with 
heavy ancestral weight, others with no weight at all; this 
crowd in which Brat found himself was a little of every¬ 
thing,— a representative group of Freshmen at Harvard 
in 1919. 


Through Freshman Eyes 

Brat could have found many men and many things of 
interest if he had but gone out of his way a little to follow 
up the opportunities which were offered him. But Brat 
did not go out of his way for anyone or anything, unless 
there was something to be gained by doing so, it being 
quite sufficient for the time being in his mind that he had 
gained admission and was now a member in good stand¬ 
ing in Harvard College. He met many men, in classes, 
in clubs, in eating halls, in his own rooms, and in the 
course of the various activities which he was advised to 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


29 


take up. He continued much as he had done at school, 
doing the things he was supposed to do, the things which 
were almost certain to bring him to the top of the heap 
at the end of his college career. He was not a social 
cultivator — the other party had to make any advances 
toward intimacy, confidence or friendship; Brat merely 
accepted the offerings or refused them. 

Brat’s attitude toward college life very often excited 
Riley’s wonder and curiosity, for, as the Irishman said, 
“ Here he is at the end of the schoolboy’s rainbow — and 
damned if he doesn’t act as if he never thought anything 
of it!” Brat very obviously did not think anything of 
it — going to college was merely a matter of course 
with him; it was his work, the thing which was to 
occupy his mind for four years; consequently he saw no 
reason why he should bother his head as to causes or 
reasons or motives or anything else; his one concern was 
to pass in his studies, and to engage in a few activities 
which had been chosen by his advisers as most likely to 
be profitable. 

Toward the other members of the gang which made a 
headquarters of their rooms, Brat maintained himself in 
an unusual position. He was both on the outside and on 
the inside; his real friends, the men toward whom he 
looked for advice and help, were of an entirely different 
calibre from his Freshman friends; they were the success¬ 
ful college-man type, being for the most part earlier 
graduates of Brat’s school, with whom he quite naturally 
fell in as soon as he set foot in Cambridge. On the other 
hand, however, he belonged to this fast growing and well 
integrated group which centred around Brocker and 
Riley; they were nearer to him than his advisers, and the 
fact that he saw them every day, upon arising in the 
morning and retiring at night, brought them very promi¬ 
nently into his life. He was a man of habits, and the habit 
of liking these fellows and enjoying their company grew 
on him as every other habit did, with the result that, 
whereas he started the college year quite well armored 


30 


WILD ASSES 


in the fashion which he had always followed, leading his 
life according to the old beacon about 44 He goes furthest 
who goes alone,” he came to a point of uncertainty about 
his idols and his illusions—although he never could have 
told himself as much. This uncertainty merely mani¬ 
fested itself in his changing attitude toward his college 
life, and toward the connections in Dartonville which had 
heretofore seemed so supremely important. 

For one thing his mother was constantly lecturing him 
in her letters about the dangers of bad companions. 
44 You can never know until you are older what vile in¬ 
fluence rowdy companions are, my dear boy,” she had 
written several times. 44 They will lead you down to the 
ruts from which you can never raise yourself. So be 
careful at all times of your company. Do not have any¬ 
thing to do with any but the best class of young men, the 
college leaders, the young men who come from the best 
families. Do not trust appearances in choosing your 
friends. Trust only their records and their family stand¬ 
ing; ninety-nine times out of every hundred the son of a 
good family will prove a good friend and a good in¬ 
fluence.” Thus and many times similarly did Mrs. Brat- 
ten seek to advise her dear son, and the dear son, as had 
for so long been his wont, tried diligently to follow his 
mother’s advice. 

But Harvard is a hot-bed of democracy. Just as soon as 
he registered in the College, Brat was thrown in the posi¬ 
tion of having to live with two fellows who were from any¬ 
thing but the best families; and before he quite realized 
what he was doing, he found himself liking his two room¬ 
mates much beyond anyone whom he had ever yet known. 
Riley and the French-Canadian were 44 real ” men; there 
was nothing artificial and pretending about them; he knew 
that he could always look to them for any kind of help 
that he might need, and he even felt like extending him¬ 
self to help them in case they should need him. 

At the very first he wrote to his mother, in regard to 
them: 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


31 


“ My roommates are a fellow named Riley and an¬ 
other named Beauvais. I don’t know anything about 
them, but they are fine fellows, and I like them very 
much already. Across the hall live Winnie Pickett, 
who was at school with me, and a young chap by the 
name of Brocker, who lost one of his legs in France. 

“ Everything is going all right down here. I will 
make the Freshman football team, I guess, since I have 
played in one game already and am on the first squad. 
Several upper classmen have already asked me about 
joining clubs next year. None of these are honorary 
clubs, however — these honorary clubs elect their mem¬ 
bers in Sophomore and Junior year. I guess by that 
time I can make them.” 

Shortly after this letter had been sent to Dartonville, 
Brat’s mother answered in a long letter telling all the 
news of Dartonville, and further lecturing the “ dear 
boy ” upon how best to conduct himself at college. She 
wrote of the doings of his former schoolmates and play¬ 
mates — especially of the ones who had ridiculed and 
made fun of him in his earlier days: one was a truck- 
driver, another a plumber, another a clerk in his father’s 
dry goods store, another an undertaker’s assistant, and 
another was completing a course in a commercial col¬ 
lege; just one of his old playmates was attending college, 
a college of which not one of Brat’s Cambridge friends 
had ever heard. Brat smiled over the contents of this 
letter, for he knew that his mother was trying to make 
some point by telling him all this about the 44 kids ” 
of the neighborhood; he knew that he was supposed to be 
gratified by the suggested comparison of himself at Har¬ 
vard and these other boys at their so ordinary occupa¬ 
tions. But he was not particularly gratified, it was too 
bad they all could not have come to Harvard; he hadn’t 
had much trouble doing it. 

This, however, was not his last impression of that 
letter. Eventually he did come to feel gratified as his 


32 


WILD ASSES 


mother had wanted him to feel, and he even smiled 
pleasedly at the further bit of news about his sister Lois. 
“ She is working day and night in some dramatic training, 
aiming toward a stage career, of which I certainly do not 
approve; but then she enjoys it and she does meet some 
exceedingly interesting people.” Lois was just like that, 
thought Brat — always trying to do something of that 
sort; she’d never be satisfied to be a common, ordinary 
human being. Still, Brat could smile at the thought, 
for Lois had never made any great effort to approve of 
her younger brother, and Brat knew it, although he had 
never cared much whether she liked him or not. And he 
still didn’t care particularly. 

Toward Ellen, Brat was determined to be properly 
attentive and ever true. When he set foot in Cambridge, 
he had in the back of his mind the conviction that Ellen 
Carver would some day be Mrs. Charles Bratten, so that 
was all there was to that! He proceeded to live accord¬ 
ingly, and although Ellen’s letters came thick and fast, 
he did his best to answer them all in good time, and he 
also tried diligently to carry on in the proper manner 
whenever, as soon became very frequently the case, he 
was in company with girls in and around Boston. He 
wrote to Ellen and, as most letters go, he was forced 
before very long to tell her everything that happened, 
because he had to write something, and he had never been 
very clever at writing sweet nothings even to Ellen. He 
told her about his friends, his studies, his activities, his 
hopes, his fears — everything that happened to be occu¬ 
pying the stage of his mind at the time of writing. And 
Ellen probably enjoyed the letters almost as much as if 
they had been full of the fire of ardor and devotion. In 
return she told him the news of Dartonville, and assumed 
much the same position as his mother in reminding him 
of his responsibilities and obligations to those at home, 
all of which poured over Brat’s habit-hardened back much 
like the well-known water over the duck. Furthermore, 
the habit of writing letters grew on him, until the mere 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


33 


thought of writing to Ellen resulted in his getting out 
the stationery to complete the act. 

His roommates soon noted the regularity with which 
Brat wrote to “ the little lady at home,” and what had 
been suspicious curiosity as to his reasons for walking 
the straight and narrow path of virtue and honor changed 
to one of admiration for his will-power. 

“Boy, I hand it to you!” declared Riley, upon the 
occasion of Brat’s asking him to post a letter for him. 
“ I wish to St. Ignatius that I had some nice little lady 
to keep me straight. That’s the only way to get any¬ 
where in this world. I’m going to find myself one here 
tout de suite , and then watch my smoke!” 

He took the letter which Brat had asked him to drop into 
the mail box, and Brat smiled after his departing figure. 
He was never entirely certain as to whether the Irishman 
was joking with him or not. At this moment he had 
an idea that Riley really meant what he said. At any 
rate, when the attitude of all the intimates had changed 
— on account of their recognizing the fact of Brat’s 
having a “ connection ” at home — Brat’s position was 
much easier. He was not asked to go on wild parties 
up in the Billerica woods or down at deserted shore 
resorts; he was not plagued for reasons for not attending 
the many risque functions which other members of the 
gang promoted; no one insisted upon his taking part 
in crap games or card games. He was placed in a niche 
and left there, while the others went about their busi¬ 
ness of going on parties, chasing “ chippies ” and wide- 
eyed schoolgirls, consuming “ god-awful hooch ” and 
contriving to pass in their courses by one-night stands. 

Brat was often intrigued by wondering what the others 
thought about many things of their life together. He 
could never quite make out whether Riley were in earnest 
when he took it upon himself to rage and rant against 
people and things. He never could quite understand 
Brocker’s antipathy for “ aristocrats and hand-shakers.” 
He did not know how Beauvais ever expected to get 


34 


WILD ASSES 


through college by smiles and general good-heartedness. 
Of the five, Pickett was the only one whose position he 
could fathom. 

Winnie Pickett was more of his own color. He had 
more money than was good for him, but he had the 
right idea about college values; he did the things that 
meant something, and very seldom allowed himself to be 
dragged out on wild parties with the gang. 

“Not that I don’t enjoy them,” as he told Brat upon one 
occasion, “ but there’s so darned much else to do that’s 
more important. Now there’s that party at Genevieve 
Kimball’s this Friday — I can spare only one night this 
week, and I’d be black-listed forever if I cut that. And 
I’ve got so much to do, I don’t know whether I’m going 
or coming.” 

Truly Pickett was a busy man, for his idea of college 
life was enough to keep any man busy. He went out 
for everything possible, from glee club to football man¬ 
agership and worked so hard at his “ interests ” that at 
exam time he could be nothing but the best of the tutor¬ 
ing school’s customers. 

And he was enthusiastic over his interests — so enthu¬ 
siastic that Riley, who had had some newspaper experi¬ 
ence in the army, finally agreed to go out for the Crimson 
when the competition started. Pickett also entered the 
competition, and for two weeks they were running neck 
and neck, chasing news and serving time at the desk in 
the Crimson building. Then, apparently without warn¬ 
ing, Riley dropped out, and gave no explanation for his 
quitting, until later, when Pickett rushed in, all excite¬ 
ment, demanding to know what the idea was. 

“ Oh, I decided to quit; too much chasing around for 
me!” calmly replied the Irishman. 

“Well, you’re a fine one!” exclaimed the other. 
“ You would make it sure if you’d stick — they think 
you’re good over there.” 

“Well, I’ve quit!” stated Riley, with conviction. “I 
stood as much of that damned handshaking prep-school 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 35 

bull as I could, and if that’s what you have to do to 
‘make it’ I don’t want to make it!” 

“What do you mean, handshaking bull?” 

“ Oh, you know what I mean — chasing around doing 
errands for a bunch of yaps, jumping every time they 
cough, smiling at their simple jokes and doing all the 
rest of that competition rigmarole! I stood enough 
of it, but tonight I was over there hanging around the 
table, and that simple-minded Berlicher, who was sitting 
there reading the Transcript , suddenly opened up with 
the suggestion that I run over to the Waldorf and get 
him a piece of pie and a glass of milk! Can you tie 
that?” Riley’s tone implied profound disgust. 

“But I don’t see anything wrong with that!” declared 
Pickett. “ You have to expect that sort of thing, that’s 
the custom; the Freshman candidates have to serve the 
editors, and do everything they can for them when they’re 
on duty at the office.” 

“ Well, it may be the custom in the eyes of you kids 
just out of school — that’s what I say: it’s just prep- 
school stuff, and I’m no prep-school kid! I took one 
look at that mouse-faced snob with his feet up on the 
desk, and then I walked out to get the air. When I came 
back he demanded to know where the hell his pie and 
milk were, and I simply told him that I had never said 
I was going to get his meals for him. Cripes! he was 
tearin’! You’d ’a’ thought I’d committed murder, and 
he started to tell me about ‘ the customs ’ of the place.” 

“ Well, then you haven’t quit yet?” asked Pickett. 

“Quit?” Riley laughed. “Why I called that damned 
fool every choice variety of simpleton and ass that I 
know of, and in the end I said that when it got so bad 
that a pie-faced kid with wet ears could have the nerve 
to ask a man with a couple of game legs to go get him 
pie and milk, I was ready to quit; and he was so damned 
blue in the face when I got through that I think he was 
glad I did quit! The poor damned yap!” 

“But dammit, Tom,” argued Pickett, who felt much 


36 


WILD ASSES 


as if an idol had been crashed in his face, “ you’ve got 
to do things according to Hoyle here or you can’t get 
along! Gee, I have to do a lot of things I don’t like, but 
I do them, knowing that everybody has to do the same 
things before they make anything. You’d better come 
back to the 4 CrimeV ” 

But Riley never went near the Crimson building after 
that, and Pickett was from that time on the logical enemy 
of the Irishman; Pickett was the typical prep-school boy 
come to Harvard to make a name for himself, and Riley 
soon declared his wholehearted opposition to “ all that 
sort of bunk!” 

To which Brocker, who was by now called Scotty 
and Brock as nicknames, fully agreed, and Beauvais, 
now called The Beau by his friends and The French 
Canuck by those who did not like him, said he did not 
think much of the idea himself. Eventually, as the weeks 
drew on and the football season, with Brat on the Fresh¬ 
man team, came to a close, Pick and Brat went together 
more and more, while the other three took their pleasures 
wherever they could find them, and paid as little atten¬ 
tion as possible to “ the better things of college life.” 

They were all loyal Harvard supporters, especially 
during the football season, which was a great one for the 
Crimson, but Brat and Pickett being more or less on the 
inside by virtue of their participation in the various 
circles in which the athletes moved and lived, were more 
restrained in their enthusiasm over Harvard’s victories 
than were Riley and Brock. Beauvais took all vic¬ 
tories in the same spirit — which was one of disregard; 
all games were the same to him, for he could have a 
good time before and after any of them, be it with 
Boston College, Princeton or Yale. But Brock and 
the Irishman, usually with a few drinks of poisonous 
bootleg whiskey to stimulate their enthusiasm, knew 
no limits in wild betting and cheering, and otherwise in¬ 
ordinately celebrating victories and prospects of victories. 

After the Yale game, life in Cambridge settled into 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


37 


more of a routine than before. Text-books saw more 
usage, and reports and theses received more than usual 
attention. Pick and Brat attended many social func¬ 
tions, through the acquaintance which Pick had among 
the younger set in and around Boston. Brat was taken 
up and very much liked by every one. He knew very 
well how to conduct himself in the best society, and 
he was handsome, in his big, husky way, more than 
enough to attract attention in any gathering. He found 
himself too popular with the young girls, who enjoyed 
the company and attentions of one of Harvard’s “ coming 
men ”— as Pick described him. And Pick was clever 
enough to take advantage of Brat’s popularity to see that 
he was invited to every possible kind of party. In Cam¬ 
bridge, it was soon taken for granted that Pickett and 
Bratten would be on the “ inside ” during their college 
career — they “ belonged.” 

Brocker was on the fence. Pick asked him many times 
to accompany them to various kinds of entertainments, 
but after the first time, Brock managed to decline all such 
invitations. That first time had been a party at a fash¬ 
ionable school some twenty miles outside of Boston. 
Brock met many very nice girls, pretty and interesting, 
however foolish and kiddish, but his enjoyment of the 
evening’s festivities was seriously lessened in that he 
could not dance. 

“ I would like to dance,” he told Brat, as the two stood 
talking and surveying the floor filled with twinkling toes 
and swaying couples, laughing and joking in obviously 
happy moods. “I’d like to, too damned well!” Brat 
thought there was some bitterness in the way Brock 
talked. “But I can’t swing this damned foot around 
unless I’m half plastered — and this isn’t that kind of a 
party!” He laughed loudly, as if the whole idea were 
that the joke was on himself. 

At any rate, despite the fact that he had met several 
pretty and alluring girls through Pick and Brat,^ Brock 
refused all invitations to go on any so-called nice 


38 


WILD ASSES 


parties thereafter. “ There’s no point in my going when 
I can’t dance, can’t do anything, in fact, except talk to 
people; and that neither interests them nor me.” 

“ But it does, Scotty,” remonstrated Pick once. “ I’ve 
had more than one girl tell me how much she enjoyed 
your company — even though you don’t want to dance, 
they like to talk to you.” 

“No — they just say that, Pick.” Brock was thor¬ 
oughly convinced that he was a bore, due to his maimed 
condition. “ And I don’t want people’s sympathy or 
pity. I don’t want to feel that any one is putting up 

with me just because they have to, or feel that they 

ought to! All those girls would much rather be with 
some chap who can dance and play around with them 
— so I don’t want to go and have to keep realizing that 
all evening!” 

Instead he went with Riley and Beauvais and the 

several other members of the crowd who patronized 

near-by roadhouses and secluded camps and East Cam¬ 
bridge bootleggers, for, as he said, “ I can dance when 
I’m half plastered, and I can almost forget that I’m only 
half a man!” 

Indeed he did seem to enjoy these parties, especially 
because in nine cases out of ten the parties never turned 
out as expected, and Riley, his boon companion in every¬ 
thing, was forever ready at hand to make things seem 
pleasant and happy whether they were or not. Riley 
was a brick, in Brock’s opinion, the best man he’d ever 
met — and a damned clever boy, too. His feeling this 
way toward the Irishman he could never have explained, 
except by telling himself that Tom had taken an interest 
in him at the very first, when he had dropped into Cam¬ 
bridge still shaky from his experiences in France and 
in the hospitals. He had come back to the States minus 
a leg and shattered in mind, suffering, according to the 
doctors’ explanation, from a kind of delayed shell-shock. 
After eight months in various hospitals, he had been 
released just in time to go to Cambridge to register for 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


39 


the college year, the Government experts thinking that 
the cure for his condition might be found in his having 
something to occupy thoroughly his time and attention. 

Brock’s memory contained a huge gap. He remem¬ 
bered clearly the crashing in of the dug-out and the 
explosion of the shrapnel almost within arm’s length 
of him. After that he remembered nothing, except as he 
had been told of the intervening time by others, until 
two months later, just after it had been found necessary 
to amputate his leg in order to give his body a chance 
to recover its health. As a result, the months following 
that operation had been full of hallucinations and deliri¬ 
ums which had quite made a wreck of his mind. He 
was erratic, nervous, self-conscious, irritable — and at 
the fag-end of this delayed shell-shock he had come to 
Cambridge, fully aware of the condition of his mind 
and body. 

Nevertheless he was determined to make the best of 
his situation. As he said, many, many times to himself 
and several times to Riley, he did not want sympathy or 
pity — he merely wanted to be given a chance to do 
something, to get somewhere, so that he need not think 
of his one-legged condition as a handicap. He did not 
want to be slapped on the back and acclaimed a hero 
—“ I wasn’t any hero! Any one else sitting in the 
hole of that dug-out would have been hit the same way; 
nothing heroic about it!” All he desired was to attain 
some peace of mind, free from the torments which had 
filled his every waking minute and many of his sleeping 
hours. 

Thus he had come to Cambridge, and at the psycho¬ 
logical time Riley had come into his life. Immediately 
the Irishman’s breezy and care-free way of looking at 
things, and the carping attitude which he soon began to 
take toward the ways of college life, were as balm to 
the wounds of his suffering companion. Riley never 
in so many words expressed his sympathy or feeling or 
understanding for Brock in his predicament, but Brock 


40 


WILD ASSES 


needed no direct statement of the Irishman’s feelings to 
know that here was the sort of friend that men can 
tie to. It seemed that throughout those fall days, when 
Brock’s mind was gradually coming back to a state of 
controlled suppression of wild fancies, Riley was at all 
times sufficient unto his needs — he could always give 
reasons for doing or not doing things, which carried 
conviction with them; so that before long Brock began 
to develop along much the same line as his companion, 
except that he was several years older, and the whole 
comedy of college life struck him with even more effect 
than it did the Irishman. 

Before Christmas vacation had come, Brock was really 
on his feet, and could control himself and his thoughts 
and fancies much as he pleased, except when under the 
influence of liquor, which was not seldom. He had 
many spells of dejection and utter discouragement. He 
was forever realizing his handicap, and reacting to this 
realization in his own peculiar way. The whole Uni¬ 
versity was soon his friend, but he resented the attitude 
which every one took toward him, that is, every one 
except his Irish companion. The officers of the college 
who had to do with the administration of college regu¬ 
lations and requirements went out of their way to be 
considerate of him; whenever he failed to attend classes 
and could give no good excuse for so doing, they usually 
ruled in his favor, and tried to arrange his work so 
that he could achieve the maximum results with the most 
convenience. The Government agent who had charge of 
his training program was at all times solicitous for his 
comfort and welfare, and joined with the college author¬ 
ities in trying to get him straightened out into a course 
that would lead him to ultimate happiness in life. 

But of it all, the only help he really had came from 
Riley. He resented the proffers from these others. He 
resented the feelings behind the offers. He did not 
want to be a marked man — marked for sympathy and 
consideration. And Riley was the only man, officer or 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


41 


student, who accepted him as he was, and did not try 
to do things for him or get him to do things for him¬ 
self simply because the things would be good for him. 
Riley helped him to make the best of his time in the 
way of finding entertainment, and, if the authorities and 
the Government agent had taken the same attitude, Brock’s 
resentment would have been directed into other channels, 
and he would have developed in more desirable fashion 
than he did. 

However that might have been, he looked upon the 
life around him with a cynical smile forever playing 
about his eyes. The young kids who rushed around so 
busily doing something that mattered not at all, crying 
heroes’ names when the heroes were no better than 
themselves, living by age-old rules of social conduct, 
drawing social lines between themselves and the Jews- 
without-money and between themselves and the Jews- 
with-money, growing snobbish and stiffly aristocratic in 
places where every one was as good as his neighbor — it 
was all so unnecessary. What did all these damned 
foolish things by which all these fresh-tinted prep- 
schools boys seemed to live, matter? And why should 
they rush into the company of other white men, and try 
to establish themselves by swinging a heavy line of 
artificial chatter about nothing much at all, and in tones 
conspicuous for affectation? And why all this rush to 
make this team or that team or this paper or that club 
— after which the nose was to be hung on the wires 
which carry telephone messages? And why all this 
worshipping of eminent professors and deans and 
intellectual heroes — they were nothing but flesh and 
blood, probably good fellows who’d take a nip them¬ 
selves behind a curtain! 

He envied the French Canadian his easy attitude toward 
the life around him. To Beauvais, nothing mattered 
except his own comfort. All he asked for in this life 
was to have enough money to be comfortable, and not 
have to work too hard. And for this condition of mind, 


42 


WILD ASSES 


Brock envied him, for Brock could not hope in his mind 
to ever feel that way toward life. 

But he grew stronger in his mind, despite the many 
liquor parties which he and Riley promoted, and by 
Christmas time he was quite himself — as much so, he 
thought, as he’d ever be. 

Yet he worried about something all the time; in his 
condition he had to have something to worry about; and 
when the troubles of his own mind ceased to worry him 
he turned to thinking about the question of why he 
should go to college. 

“ I don’t really see what good all this clap-trap 
will ever do me, Tom,” he said to his friend upon one 
occasion. “ It all looks too damned simple and child¬ 
ish to be useful! Why sometimes, when I consider 
the fact that I have been almost insane around here 
these past three months, I wonder whether it’s me 
that’s crazy or all these other normal people. If being 
out of tune means being insane, then I’m sure as hell 
insane, for I’m way out of tune with this whole business 
of going to college!” 

But Riley merely laughed at him, and offered him a 
cigarette to occupy his attention, saying, “ Sure — so 
are we all! All out of tune! Don’t you know, Scotty, 
that every man who ever uses his head at all comes 
sooner or later to the realization that either he’s crazy or 
everybody else is? I don’t doubt at all but what many a 
genius has been cooped up in an insane asylum, just 
because he was out of tune with the community! Maybe 
that’s where we’ll end—we’re probably geniuses, as the 
Latins wouldn’t say!” 

Riley laughed again, and Brock was forced to smile, 
for whenever he suggested something too serious or too 
near to his own condition, Riley invariably proceeded 
to carry the idea to such extremes that it became ridicu¬ 
lous and laughable. 

“We’re a fine pair of genii!” he muttered, after the 
laugh, whereupon they proceeded to lay plans for a 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 43 

party on the following night which would demonstrate 
their genius for practical things. 

Galoshes and Other Matters 

Some sage once opined that all Freshman years were 
just alike — meaning that the experiences of work and 
play and unforeseen incidents cover the same course in 
the case of every Freshman. That sage was correct in 
his opinion. Every Freshman year is just like every 
other Freshman year, and especially is this true of the 
long, hard pull through the winter months. In almost 
every case there is just so much play and so much 
work, each of a more or less definite, routine nature. 
The Freshman of 1924 goes through the same process 
that the Freshman of 1919 went through, probably the 
same that the Freshman of 1910 experienced. 

Some other sage passed the opinion that a man’s col¬ 
lege career is largely determined by what he does in his 
first year. That opinion also approaches the truth. And 
it is probable that young Pickett had come in contact 
with such an opinion, as indicated by his whole-souled 
pursuit of “ the things that count ” immediately after his 
settlement in Cambridge. He was determined to get 
ahead, and from the first he did get ahead. 

His case, and those of his friends, are somewhat in 
line with that thought expressed by Baudelaire to the 
effect that “Life is a game: some play to win, some 
to lose and some indifferently.” Pickett was whole¬ 
heartedly playing the college game to win. Brat, too, 
played to win, but in a different way; Brat’s attitude 
was more passive than active; his was an habitual atti¬ 
tude of avoiding the shore whereon reclined the tempta¬ 
tions which might reach out and snatch him from the 
current of progress; he merely rode the stream, know¬ 
ing that the stream would carry him through the wilder¬ 
ness to the open sea whereon he wished to sail. But 
the main distinction between Brat and Pick lay in the 
former’s passivity and the latter’s activity. As Riley put 


44 


WILD ASSES 


it, “ I can readily understand how his father became 
so wealthy — I’ll bet he never did anything in his life 
except make money! And that’s just the way his son 
goes about getting ahead in college.” 

For Riley did not belong in either Brat’s or Pick’s 
category. He was smilingly indifferent to the whole 
business. He was playing the game neither to win nor 
to lose — he merely enjoyed sitting in and watching 
others go up and down, the latter movement being illus¬ 
trated by the observable indications of the attitude of 
his crony, Brock. Brock was playing the game to lose — 
he was pre-convinced that he could never win, college 
values and standards being what they were, and he could 
not, like Riley, smile at the goings-on. He had to be 
active, even if his activity brought losses upon himself. 
And Riley sometimes thought that Brock enjoyed his 
activity quite as much as Pick, although in each case 
the activity led to widely different ends; and, looking 
from Brock to Beauvais, Riley could never quite decide 
whether it were better to be ever worrying and active 
detrimentally, as Brock was, or unruffled and floating, 
as the French Canadian always appeared to be. Beau¬ 
vais’ attitude was somewhat near to Riley’s own, but 
Beauvais was not as clever as Riley, and his feelings 
were more natural, and not dependent upon his reason. 
He played the game because he enjoyed it, win or lose; 
he was happy if he seemed to be winning, and he cursed 
good-naturedly — but with the air of “ I never expected 
to win ”— when he appeared to be losing. As far as 
disposition and comradely feelings went, the ways of the 
world bothered him not at all. As Riley said of him, 
“ The Beau could go through hell and come out without 
a single blister!” 

All of which is by way of describing the different 
paths taken by the different members of the five-sided 
group of Freshmen. They were all playing the same 
game, but each played in his own peculiar way. And the 
game, which began in September, carried on into the 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


45 


winter months so quickly that no one, except the men 
of Pick’s type, who turn every minute to some purpose, 
could understand how the time managed to fly so swiftly. 
The winter found the others still playing the game half¬ 
heartedly, dancing while the Pickett type were fever¬ 
ishly sewing on the hats which later would collect the 
coins. 

Winter never comes to Harvard Square before Christ¬ 
mas, it being apparently a law of nature that no snow 
can be deposited there in any quantities until after 
Christmas-to-New-Year vacation. Brat was therefore led 
to believe that the Christmas holidays in New England 
would be mild and altogether enjoyable, which resulted 
in his finally writing to his mother, among other items, 
the following: 

Pick has invited me to his home for the holidays, 
and I think I shall accept, unless you absolutely want 
me to come to Dartonville. But it seems like so long a 
trip for so short a stay that I’m not over-crazy about 
coming home, regardless of how much I want to see 
you. There’s not much to do anywhere — if I stay 
around here, however, I can do some work on the 
five or six reports and themes which I have to write, 
they being due right after the vacation. I should like 
to see Ellen, but I guess she’ll survive whether I come 
home or not. So, unless you especially want me, I’ll 
go to Pick’s and postpone my home-coming until June. 

Mrs. Bratten approved of Winnie Pickett; she was 
entirely willing for her son to forego his trip home. 
So Brat went to Pick’s for the holidays and enjoyed a 
very good time, for there were several other prominent 
fellows there, and in the course of the ten days’ vacation 
there were many parties and many nice girls for passing 
entertainment. Brat enjoyed it all in his usual fashion, 
and quite excusably forgot or neglected to do any of the 
work which he had planned for the vacation. 


46 


WILD ASSES 


College re-opened the day after New Year’s, and almost 
immediately the Mid-Year Exams became the center of 
all interest. To the Freshmen these were monstrous 
things — an entirely new experience; no one knew 
exactly what they would be, how difficult or how easy, 
nor how the instructors marked them; and the very 
uncertainty of the situation stimulated every one to 
unheard-of amounts of studying and attending classes. 
Even Brock succumbed to the spirit of the time by sedu¬ 
lously going to every class for three weeks and Beauvais 
found himself so busy all of a sudden that by the time 
the exams began, late in January, the French Canadian 
was entirely played out with the fever — so played out 
that he almost flunked out of his requirements. 

The exams came. Crap games and card games were 
banned. Parties were put in the offing —“ provided the 
work is finished,” which it never was, for invariably the 
night-before found every man with a burden of un¬ 
covered work to go over before the following morning. 

Certain courses were common to them all, the require¬ 
ments for distribution and concentration of studies work¬ 
ing out so that every one of the five was taking the 
General Survey of World History, and either French or 
German, besides having to take the General English 
course which was prescribed for all first-year men. For 
science, Riley, Brock and Brat were taking Zoology, and 
Pick and Beauvais had a course in Chemistry. Brat and 
Pick also had Economics, and the others were wrestling 
with the “ theories and ideas ” of ancient philosophers. 
By the time the exams started Riley exclaimed, “ I never 
saw so damned many books and papers in one room in 
all my life.” For they had, among the five of them, 
collected every available piece of information that might 
be useful in any one of the eight courses which their 
combined schedules embraced, and this mass of material 
was entirely beyond any possibility of being covered. 
But the night-before witnessed an attempt to cover 
everything, the attempt usually ending in exhaustion at 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


47 


four in the morning, or an all-night stand, with frequent 
recourse to black coffee and many cigarettes. 

The English exam was the last to come, and of the 
five Riley was the only man who in any way excelled in 
the writing of English as the English instructors de¬ 
manded it. He was not worried over this exam — indeed, 
on the night-before he seriously suggested that a wild 
celebration “ with beaucoup liquor” would be in order; 
but his suggestion was grunted down, and the Irishman 
was induced to spend his time tutoring the others who 
were less fortunate in their talents. There was a long 
list of books which they were supposed to have read, a 
textbook of grammar and rhetoric, one-half of which 
they were expected to know thoroughly, and a composi¬ 
tion of five hundred words which they were required to 
have planned out and ready to write during the hustle 
of the examination. 

Riley began at the beginning of the course and covered 
everything in the program. He outlined the books which 
were to have been read, explained in brief the high 
points of the rules and illustrations given in the text¬ 
book, and then gave a long lecture, in the vulgar tongue, 
on the fine art of writing to pass examinations. 

“Just use common sense — that’s all there is to this 
stuff. Whatever the hell you think of, write down before 
you forget it. Whatever the subject is — and there’ll 
be ten or twelve to choose from — pick one that you 
know a little about, and then divide it into three or four 
parts or sections, like, if it’s ‘ A Perfect Day,’ divide 
it into Morning, Afternoon and Night, and then pro¬ 
ceed to write everything that happened or could have 
happened under those three headings. Five hundred 
words isn’t much, and anybody can rattle off a compo¬ 
sition that will pass, if they don’t lose their head and 
don’t forget what they’re doing. The main thing is to 
write everything that comes into your head — it doesn’t 
make much difference whether it is directly relevant or 
not — write it!” 


48 


WILD ASSES 


Thus spake Tom Riley, and he was answered by Brock, 
saying, “Humph—pure bull!” 

“Sure it’s bull—that’s what they want!” continued 
Riley. “That’s why I say that—just write everything, 
just as you’d say it, and if you happen to think of a 
grammatical rule which makes a certain statement dif¬ 
ficult or grammatically wrong, just twist it around and 
say it some other way. That’s all there is to composi¬ 
tion—writing whatever you think of.” 

They took his advice next morning, the product of 
their efforts being a collection of essays and arguments 
which completely baffled their instructors as to meaning 
or end; but the writers passed, even the Beau, who 
wrote on “The Death of a Lumberman” with such reck¬ 
less abandon that his instructor was not sure until the 
very end whether the composition concerned was a criti¬ 
cism of a wild northwest movie, a description of a boot¬ 
legging episode along the Canadian border, or an attempt 
at polyphonic prose after Miss Lowell. The instructor 
took occasion to comment upon it in class by saying, “I 
enjoyed that game very much, Mr. Beauvais!” And Beau¬ 
vais knew not whether to be insulted or elated. 

After this wise was the first obstacle in the chase 
surmounted and passed. No one went on probation as 
a result of the Mid-Years, and a great celebration was 
to be expected, the more so because Pickett had wagered 
a party with Riley that the latter would not get better 
than a C in his Zoology. Specifically, the wager pro¬ 
posed that Pickett would go on a party at any house 
which Riley chose. When the results came in, Riley was 
the proud possessor of a B, probably because he stayed 
up all night before the exam when the others had retired 
early. Pickett was game; he agreed to pay his bet as 
promised, and finally argued so convincingly that Brat 
agreed to accompany them. A taxi was procured, and 
the party of five set out for Boston, the Irishman having 
a hazy idea of a suitable and reasonable place. 

Arrived there, they found that the birds had been 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


49 


forced to fly to parts unknown, through the machinations 
of several unbribable police officers. Much disappointed, 
Riley bethought himself of another possibility, and the 
cab proceeded to that address, only to discover that there 
was no one at home. The Irishman knew of just one 
last chance; the cab took them there, Riley descended 
and disappeared in a dark doorway, and returned after 
twenty minutes, cursing everything in general and the 
oldest profession in particular, explaining that the parties 
refused to let the crowd come in because they had had 
some trouble with the police too recently to let them take 
any chances. 

“Well — guess we don’t have to pay our bet!” laughed 
Pickett, who really could not have stated truthfully that 
he was sorry. 

“The hell you don’t!” declared the Irishman. “How 
about the taxi driver? He ought to know some place!” 
So the driver w T as questioned and finally persuaded to 
assist them. They rode to another place in the far end of 
the city — no one at home. Another long ride back to 
the South End — too late. Thence to Commonwealth 
Avenue — parties had moved. Finally to an apartment 
house in Cambridge — no answer to the bell. 

“That’s about all I know, boss!” the driver informed 
Riley, who was by this time much disgruntled. 

“Well, take us home!” he ordered, after which he set 
upon Brat and Pick with many choice epithets, not 
because he had failed to find a way for Pick to pay his 
bet, but because he was just beginning to realise that the 
taxi fare, not mentioned in the wager, was his own 
consideration. 

“Nineteen dollars and thirty cents!” he exclaimed in 
dismay when the meter was read to him. “Cripes 
almighty! that’s what I get for trying to lead you virtuous 
jackasses astray!” He paid the fare and they went to 
their rooms. 

“Verily the way of the intended transgressor is hard!” 
laughed Pick as a parting remark that night. 


50 


WILD ASSES 


The Irishman slammed his door and swore to Beauvais 
that he’d “get him right some day!” 

Jubilee 

No matter what one does, time will pass, and the date 
which seemed yesterday to be so far distant and unattain¬ 
able suddenly becomes today. 

“Ye gods!” exclaimed Riley, at the beginning of the 
second semester. “Now we start in to do the same thing 
we’ve just finished doing — another half year just like the 
first; this is a heck of an existence!” 

To which Brat replied, “No football in the spring — 
I’ve got to find something to do.” Meaning that he would 
probably try for the track team, since he had never devel¬ 
oped any talent along baseball lines, and his awkwardness 
had always kept him from even trying to play tennis. 

But when the spring season really opened, someone 
called his attention to the possibilities of rowing as a good 
solid, respectable sport; so Brat reported for a try-out at 
the boathouse, and eventually came to enjoy rowing very 
much, and made sufficient progress to warrant the coaches’ 
encouraging him to remember the fall training in his 
sophomore year. Some time after he had started his 
rowing activities, the spring training for future varsity 
football candidates began, and from that time to the 
end of the college year Brat had quite enough to occupy 
his free hours. 

In the meantime, Pick had made the “Freshman Red 
Book,” the annual publication which served as an elabo¬ 
rate summary of the year’s class activities, containing 
pictures of all the teams which represented the class 
during the year, the record of their successes or failures, 
and the photograph of every member of the class, with 
a note giving the high spots of the individual’s scholastic, 
military or naval, fraternal and athletic career. Pick 
won out in a competition for business manager of the 
publication, and by virtue of his office immediately 
became known to every member of his class. 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


51 


But the first of June came upon them, and two days 
before the Final Exams were scheduled to begin, the 
Freshman Jubilee was held in Smith Hall, so close at 
hand that Brat, Riley and the others could not have 
ignored the party even if they had wanted to for the sake 
of their studies, which of course they did not. Indeed, 
the Jubilee represented a problem to Brat. He had a 
hazy idea that he should at least invite Ellen down for 
the occasion — in which case he would have to ask her 
mother or his mother or sister to come with her, and there 
would be certain demands upon him to entertain them 
for at least a few days afterwards, Final Exams or no 
Final Exams. 

Said Riley, in regard to this, “Don’t be foolish! Why 
make that girl come way down here for nothing? This 
damned Jubilee will be nothing but a mob scene, abso¬ 
lutely stupid; and then you’d have no time to entertain 
them, unless you want to flunk that Psych, coming the 
first day of the exams.” 

Said Pick, “Let Ellen stay home — she can see the 
sights down here next year or later; it would be too incon¬ 
venient for this party. I know a girl whom you’ll like, 
and who’ll help you to enjoy the night’s entertainment 
without tying you down in any way. Better let me fix it 
up for you.” 

Said Brock, “I’m going to bring two chorines out to 
the bloomin’ affair, and somebody’s going to have to 
dance with them unless they pass out before the dancing 
starts. Now, Brat, why don’t you tag along with me and 
meet a chorus girl for a change — it’s all in an educa¬ 
tion, you know.” 

Said Beauvais, “Brat, you better go with Pick! I’ll 
take care of Brock’s friends from the chorus.” 

In the end Ellen was not invited. Brat soothed his 
conscience by writing to his mother and explaining at 
great length how inconvenient her coming down would 
be. Ellen replied with many comments of a very light 
nature, all of which convinced Brat that his worries had 


52 


WILD ASSES 


been in vain, because she had never heard of the Freshman 
Jubilee, did not know that it was the only considerable 
social affair of the first year at Harvard, and consequently 
would not have anticipated it with any great enthusiasm. 
“And anyway,” she had written, “I think I’m coming to 
Boston to school next year, so you will have plenty of 
opportunities for showing me the town then.” Which last 
was news to Brat, such news as he did not really know 
how to take — he wondered vaguely if Ellen would not 
be much better off in Ohio. 

The girl with whom Brat found himself as a result 
of Pick’s efforts was the daughter of a lawyer from 
Malden, whose last name Brat never bothered to remem¬ 
ber, but whose first name he knew to be Elizabeth — the 
daughter’s, not the lawyer’s. She had been raised on 
prep-school boys and college undergraduates, Brat soon 
discovered, and she knew almost as much about Harvard 
as did Brat himself — which, of course, was rather dis¬ 
concerting. Brat almost agreed with Riley, whose com¬ 
ment upon her contained some suggestion to the effect 
that he “never cared much for girls who know everything 
from the social register to the telephone book!” 

However, from the very first meeting, Elizabeth liked 
Brat — and made the mistake of saying so, which showed 
that she really did not know so much as Riley imagined. 
The result of her frankness manifested itself immediately 
in Brat’s feeling uncomfortable; if there was anything 
he disliked, it was to have some sweet young thing begin 
to drop potent little remarks which he could never be 
sure were not attempts at sarcasm or irony or ridicule, 
or some other undesirable form of wit. 

Elizabeth danced well, which made not the least dif¬ 
ference to Brat, but caused him to wonder when she 
exclaimed, in the early part of the evening’s festivities, 
and after she had consumed only two small offerings of 
liquid refreshments, “Oh, dear, dear Brat! It’s too 
dreadfully hot to dance—can’t we go out somewhere and 
do something else for a while?” 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


53 


To which Brat, wondering, replied, “Surely — any¬ 
thing, anywhere!” And he led her from the hall wherein 
the dancing was just beginning to assume the proportions 
of a wild orgy of abandon. 

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, when they had 
attained the open air. 

“Oh—anywhere,” she replied, hanging upon his arm 
as if she were thrilled to tears. “Have you a car here?” 

He had — or rather, he had the key to Pick’s car, 
which was parked in front of a near-by dormitory. They 
went to it and got in. 

“0-o-h — this is comfort!” crooned Elizabeth, sinking 
into the deep cushions of Pick’s expensive coupe. “Got 
a cigarette, dear?” 

Brat had no cigarettes, because he never smoked, but 
he was always eager to oblige, so their first destination 
was a drug store in the Square, where Brat purchased for 
her a box of highly perfumed cigarettes. 

“Now take me anywhere,” she sighed, as she lighted 
one and lay back against his arm, which was not around 
her. 

“Check,” he submitted, and proceeded to take her 
for a ride. Down past the scene of the Jubilee he drove, 
along the boulevard to a bridge which crossed to Com¬ 
monwealth Avenue, out to Brighton and Newton, across 
to Watertown, thence to Belmont through the woods. 

“My dear Brat! —what are you trying to do? Show 
me all of Massachusetts?” Elizabeth, as said before, 
liked Brat’s handsome bigness, but she expected at least 
some indication that the feeling was mutual. 

“Knew a fellow got arrested in this woods last week — 
just for parking along the road, too!” Brat smiled at 
her as he dropped this bit of information. 

Elizabeth thought for a moment, then, inhaling deeply 
from a newly lit cigarette, ventured, “Well, I’m sure, 
Brat dear, that you will never need to worry about getting 
arrested.” 

“Hope not!” Brat smiled back at her. Elizabeth had 


54 


WILD ASSES 


a sudden impulse to wrap herself around this big ape, 
who insisted upon being so excruciatingly nice, but 
distant. 

They rode on, into Arlington, down Massachusetts 
Avenue into Harvard Square, and returned to the Jubilee, 
Brat smiling while Elizabeth simulated a few well- 
directed pouts. 

The first persons whom they met upon their reentering 
the quadrangle of Smith Halls greeted them effusively. 
Brock and Beauvais and their chorines, having suddenly 
realized that their supply of internal varnish was pain¬ 
fully low, were setting out for a new supply. Beauvais 
insisted upon introducing the ladies of the chorus to Brat 
and Elizabeth, and further insisted that the latter couple 
accompany them on their quest. 

“Can’t do it, Beau!” Brat persistently refused. “We 
have the next dance with somebody, and Elizabeth 
wouldn’t like to cut it.” 

For a moment Brat thought Elizabeth intended to 
accept Beauvais’ invitation, despite him, but she mur¬ 
mured her agreement with him, and they finally managed 
to get away from the inebriated quartet. Afterwards 
Elizabeth remarked, “I can’t understand how you fellows 
can stand that kind of girl!” 

And Brat rejoined, “Tom Riley always says that one 
doesn’t go to the millinery store to get groceries,” Which 
remark, so totally at variance with Elizabeth’s impressions 
of Brat’s powers of observation and expression — even 
though the expression was second-hand — startled her 
into silent submission while they danced the next dance 
together. 

Thenceforth during the evening they exchanged many 
dances, so many indeed that Elizabeth began to suspect 
that her escort was purposely promoting these exchanges, 
and the suspicion served only to arouse still higher her 
desire to captivate this man, who so exasperated her by 
his air of indifference. As the evening wore on, and as 
she danced with more and more of Brat’s seemingly end- 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


55 


less supply of men, she came to the conclusion that her 
partner was the most sober of any partaking of the festiv¬ 
ities. She noted several other harmless-looking indi¬ 
viduals, who appeared too young to have been bitten 
by the liquor-bug, but of the really desirable men whom 
she met, Brat was by far the steadiest on his feet. 

Pick had disappeared entirely — her last recollection 
of him being that he was in the company of Riley and 
that both were too happy to be considered sober. Finally, 
when she noted that Pick and her girl friend had not 
reappeared, she began to wonder, and at the first oppor¬ 
tunity suggested some of her curiosity or anxiety to 
Brat. 

“Lord knows where they are, Betty,” replied Brat, when 
she asked him where they might have gone. 

“Maybe they’re over in your room!” she suggested. 

Brat agreed that maybe they were, so a few minutes 
found them at his door, through which were coming no 
sounds whatever. They entered and found the place 
deserted. 

As they stood there in the study looking out across the 
lantern-filled quadrangle, the voice of a girl, which 
Elizabeth recognized at once as her friend’s, carried to 
them clearly and disturbingly. 

“One more drink and I’ll dance on the table!” the voice 
was saying. “One more drink and I’ll either dance or 
pass out!” 

“Brat! ” cried Elizabeth, as if she were shocked. “Where 
is she?” 

Brat smiled. “Don’t worry—from the sound of her 
voice I should say there’s not much danger of her dancing 
on any table.” 

He led her out and across the hall. The door was 
locked, and when he knocked, all was silent — so silent 
that Brat had to laugh as he said, “It’s Bratten! Let me 
in!” The voices broke out again and the door was 
opened. 

The room was a study in disorder. Riley, with his 


56 


WILD ASSES 


girl in his lap, was sitting in a big arm-chair beside 
the center table, on which resided several empty bottles 
and one that was partially filled. On the settee before 
the window was stretched the form of Elizabeth’s friend; 
she looked very bleary eyed and unbecomingly flushed of 
face, and upon seeing Elizabeth, sprang screaming to her 
feet and ran into the adjoining bedroom. Elizabeth 
could only stare after her. 

“Making too much noise, Tom!” declared Brat. 
“Where’s Pick?” 

“Ah-ha-ha-ha — Winnie Twickenham has taken the 
count!” Riley laughed uproariously at what he con¬ 
sidered a very excellent joke at Pick’s expense. “He’s in 
the bedroom; don’t bother him—he’ll be all right later!” 
Riley continued to laugh. 

“Later nothing!” Brat had a sudden impulse to do 
something, as if inaction would surely bring disaster to 
them all. “You’d all better come on out and get the 
air!” 

He went into the bedroom, followed by Elizabeth. 
There they found Pick stretched unconscious upon the 
bed and, sitting close beside him, was his girl. 

Elizabeth succeeded in rousing her friend and pro¬ 
ceeded to lecture her severely upon forgetting herself in 
such a fashion. But the girl was beyond the influence of 
lectures. All she was able to offer in reply was some¬ 
thing to the effect that she would not move from her Pick 
no matter what happened. 

“He’s dead, and it’s all my fault!” she wailed. “He 
got drunk just because I did — and now I can’t wake him 
up!” 

“But why did you do this?” demanded Elizabeth 
impatiently. 

“Just ’cause Pick did!” she answered, “And everybody 
else was drinking, so why shouldn’t we?” 

Brat tried to rouse Pick, but met with no success. Pick 
was entirely unconscious. After several attempts had 
failed, Brat said, “We’d best go and leave him here. You 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


57 


girls come along with me, and if he doesn’t come to pretty 
soon I’ll take you home; but we can’t stay in here!” 

“Why not?” demanded the girl, “I refuse to leave my 
Winnie like this! If he can’t go, I won’t!” 

“But, my dear young lady,” Brat argued, “if a Yard 
Cop or one of the matrons should happen along by here, 
the whole crowd of us will get pitched out — and Pick 
would get kicked out of college as sure as you’re living!” 

But the young lady was adamant; she would not move. 
Brat began to lose his temper. He determined to carry 
her out, if need be, but when he tried that, she emitted 
such an ear-shattering scream that his determination was 
immediately quenched. 

“Can’t we get out the back way?” asked Elizabeth. 

Brat thought for a moment. “Yes, we can go through 
the next suite and out through the window. Let’s go 
and see if there’s anyone in there.” 

They went out into the hall and tried the door into 
the rear suite. It opened easily, and they peered into 
the dark room. Apparently no one was there, so they 
returned to Pick’s room to get him and his stubborn, all- 
too-loyal companion. 

“Come on,” said Brat to the girl. “If you insist upon 
going with Pick, come on!” And he picked up the pros¬ 
trate figure in his arms and walked out, the girl following 
under Elizabeth’s supervision. As they passed through 
the study, Riley decided to accompany the procession, 
and staggered into the rear suite in time to help Brat put 
Pick’s inert body through the window to the ground below. 
The girls followed, and Riley was halfway out himself 
before he remembered that part of a quart still stood on 
the table in Pick’s room. He went back for it. 

Back in the room, he decided to have a drink before 
leaving. He had one, smacked his lips satisfiedly, put 
the bottle in his hip pocket and departed, closing the 
door behind him. 

As he opened the door into the rear suite, he noticed 
that the light in the bedroom had been turned on, and in 


58 


WILD ASSES 


the half-shadow of the study a vision of girlish loveliness 
suddenly confronted him. Hurriedly mumbling apolo¬ 
gies, he climbed through the window and soon found his 
friends camped in the shadows at the corner of the build¬ 
ing, waiting for Brat to bring Pick’s car around for them. 

The six crowded into the spacious coupe, and Brat 
drove for two hours before Pick and his companion were 
in such condition that she could be taken home and he 
could be talked to. Riley’s girl was next deposited at 
her home, and then Elizabeth, who made Brat promise 
to let her hear from him without fail before too many 
days had passed. Riley, Pick and Brat were safe in their 
beds at five-thirty in the morning. Brock and Beauvais 
were not at home. 

At The Quarter-Post 

“Caty-Q-Cripes! What a headache!” grumbled Riley 
as, late in the next afternoon, the day before his first Final 
Exam, he tried stubbornly to make sense out of a set of 
Psychology notes. He looked through the door and 
across the hall to the picture presented there; Pick, with 
a huge towel around his head, was diligently engaged at 
his desk, but his frequent changing of the towel, squirm¬ 
ing in his seat, sorting and re-sorting the papers before 
him, all indicated that he was making very little progress 
in his studying. Riley could smile at this picture; he 
had seen to it that Winslow Twickenham Pickett III went 
under the table—almost disgustingly so, in the opinion 
of many of his friends. 

That afternoon Pick had recalled the fact that one of 
his mother’s best friends had served as a patroness of 
the previous night’s Jubilee; and he recalled very dis¬ 
tinctly that he had met her under very embarrassing 
circumstances — although he had not known at the time 
that he should feel embarrassed. Next day, however, he 
knew all too well that he should have been utterly ashamed 
of himself. Not only for that, but he had been hilari- 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


59 


ously intoxicated throughout most of the evening, and he 
could not determine in his mind whether his reputation 
was thereby absolutely ruined or merely badly twisted. 
And oh!—such a headache he’d never before suffered in 
his whole life! 

He looked across toward the smiling Irishman. “You 
son-of*a-gun, Tom Riley! I hope your children are dope 
peddlers or bootleggers!” 

“Oh—oh—don’t make me laugh, Winnie!” answered 
the other. “My head splits wide open every time I 
breathe!” 

“I hope it breaks into a thousand pieces!” growled 
Pick. “’Twould serve you right!” 

“Why — what’s the matter with you?” 

“Well — I’m off the liquor! Believe me—” Pick 
removed the towel from his head, the better to emphasize 
his declaration, “the next drink I take will be in a padded 
cell, when there’s nobody at all around to watch me — 
or to help me drink!” This last was aimed directly at 
the Irishman, but he only laughed and held his head. 

Sometime later Brock and Beauvais returned, looking 
rather the worse for their night spent away from their 
rooms. 

“I’m off this drinkin’ business!” announced Brock the 
moment he entered the door. “Don’t anyone ever set a 
drink before me again. Anybody could buy me for two 
cents this minute!” 

“Why — what’s the matter, Scotty?” asked Riley. 

“Oh, nothing; but that liquor must have been poison. 
I’ve been on the verge of death since about eleven o’clock 
last night, and I don’t relish the feeling! I’m cured 
of that stuff, believe you me!” 

Riley laughed. “That’s one way of learning, Scotty! 
That’s why they give us so much liberty here at Harvard 
— they figure that if a man has any sense at all he’ll 
learn to avoid these mornings-after! But how were the 
chorines?” 

Brock looked at Beauvais and the French Canadian 


60 


WILD ASSES 


looked back at him before he ventured, “Well — they 
were good sports, but — well, they wanted us to start 
banks in their stockings, and personally I’m opposed to 
all that sort of thing!” 

“Opposed!” laughed Riley. “But where have you been 
then?” 

“You’d never guess!” stated the Beau, by this time 
divested of coat and hat and comfortably ensconced on 
the couch. 

Riley tried several guesses, but finally gave up. “Where 
have you been?” 

“In a Turkish bath since three o’clock this morning!” 
announced Brock. “And I was insulted three times while 
we were there!” 

“Which is the price one pays,” said Riley, smiling 
significantly at his one-legged friend, who returned the 
glance with a heavy pillow which almost rendered the 
Irishman speechless. 

After dinner that evening the two rooms were scenes 
of frenzied studying for exams. Recollections of the 
Jubilee were banned, except in the mind of each one 
where the constantly thump-bumping pains continued to 
carry on much too predominantly for comfort. Regard¬ 
less of the headaches and the sickly feelings, the study¬ 
ing went on throughout the night and to the wee small 
hours of the morning, and after much black coffee and 
several bad-tasting cigarettes, the examination was taken. 

For the following three weeks the Finals were the chief 
concern of everyone. Tutoring schools were over-crowded. 
The dormitories were flooded with printed reviews and 
brief summaries of courses. The College Library received 
more attention than it had known for a year. Seniors, 
supposed to have been wearing their caps and gowns since 
the early part of May, seemed almost suddenly to multi¬ 
ply by hundreds; caps and gowns were to be seen every¬ 
where around the Square, and every examination-room 
contained its quota of the robed figures. 

Most Freshmen were eager to finish their work and be 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


61 


free to go their ways for the vacation; Commencement 
and Class Week had no pleasures for them. Brat, Riley 
and their friends kept studiously at their books until 
their last exam was over, by which time the memories 
of the Jubilee had so subsided as to permit of Brock’s 
suggesting a liquid celebration on the occasion of having 
finished the year. 

“Count me out!” said Pick, without consideration. 
“That Jubilee taught me my lesson!” 

“What are you howlin’ about?” demanded Brock. “For 
the love of Alice of Old Vincennes—you got off lucky! 
You weren’t the only one that was plastered that night — 
the whole place was reeking with poison hooch! And 
you didn’t get in any trouble over it, did you?” 

“No,” laughed Riley. “Pick can still remember that 
headache, can’t you, Pick? But say, have you heard the 
latest about that party?” Apparently no one had heard 
it, so Riley continued, “The kid in the office was telling 
me this afternoon that the patronesses complained about 
the goings-on down here — a couple of yard cops found 
women in several rooms; one cop walked in on an inti¬ 
mate little party up in the top of one of the Halls — and 
some kid’s father raised hell with the office because his 
son damned near died from poisoning! They’re raising 
Cain about the whole affair, and this boy tells me there 
won’t be any next year; the Class of 1923 has apparently 
put the kibosh on all such festivities; fellows like Pick 
here, who can’t hold their liquor and don’t know how to 
behave with nice girls at nice parties — that’s the kind 
that queers things for us good fellows!” 

Even Pick smiled at this light castigation. Riley was 
forever casting aspersions upon Pick, and the odd part 
of the situation was that Pick enjoyed this little habit 
of Riley’s immensely. 

But as to the Jubilee, a chorus of questions and argu¬ 
ments followed the bit of news reported by the Irishman. 
In Riley’s opinion the whole thing was a farce, and might 
just as wejl be discontinued. Pick and Brat seemed to 


62 


WILD ASSES 


be sorry that their class had been the cause of its being 
in disfavor. Beauvais and Brock did not care particu¬ 
larly one way or the other: all parties were the same to 
them. 

Said Riley: “Well—the fact is that where classes are so 
damned big, a nice congenial party is impossible; they 
can’t run a party for seven hundred men and make it a 
roaring success from any point of view; it will either be 
terribly stupid, with a cop at every window, or it will be 
wild and woolly in spots. Naturally, our Jubilee was in 
spots, and those spots stood out for all to see—no wonder 
the patronesses complained! I felt like complaining 
myself at a lot of things I saw going on!” 

“Yeh—me too!” chimed in Beauvais, looking at Pick¬ 
ett very hard. Beauvais recalled that Pickett had very 
cleverly ignored him the night of the Jubilee and had 
evaded introducing him to his fair companion, “just as 
if,” as Beauvais told Brock, “my girl, the blonde chorine, 
were as drunk as his girl was!” 

“Anyway — here we are at the end of the first lap! ” 
said Riley, who had been informed of the slight which 
the Beau had suffered, and wanted to change the subject 
before unpleasantries arose. “Three years to go! And 
the first year is supposed to be the hardest; according to 
Hoyle we’re supposed to have been working like holy hell 
here for the past nine months in order to initiate our¬ 
selves into the royal crimson clan, so that we can enjoy 
the coming three years as befits Harvard men; — guess 
we ought to have a drink on that, eh?” 

But they had no drinks that day, Riley and Brock not 
even regretting the lack because their anxiety to get away 
from Cambridge subordinated whatever thoughts of liquor 
they may have had at various times during the day. 

Brat left the following day for Ohio; Pick went to New 
York; and the night train to Montreal carried three tired 
but happy musketeers of pleasure in the persons of Riley, 
Brocker and Beauvais, the French Canadian having prom¬ 
ised the other two a fortnight of thrills and excitements 


ACADEMIA POST BELLUM 


63 


such as they all hoped would make a good preparation 
to their return to Cambridge for the opening of Summer 
School early in July. 





















Sophomorics? It is an age of sophomorics! 

It is the heyday of the Wild Ass — 

Of him who suffers from mental gout and spiritual 
hunger, 

Of him who thinks too much and feels too little! 

Sophomorics are the earmark of the species! 

Said Riley: e( Womankind could once he divided into 
three general classifications: the lady, the drudge and 
the prostitute; but now to these must be added the Human 
Mule—a total racial loss! Man breeds mules by asses !’ 9 

Is there a difference between (i being wise 99 and i6 having 
wisdom"? 











CHAPTER III 


The Age of Omniscience 

Although the Freshman year in college determines to 
a great extent the course of the individual’s college career, 
the fruits to be reaped in Junior and Senior years being 
directly consequent to the sowing of seeds in the first 
year, the Sophomore year is in many respects even more 
important than the first. To be a Sophomore means 
to be better than a Freshman; it means that the man has 
successfully weathered the academic storm for one whole 
year, and has of necessity embraced certain universal 
experiences which should have — whether or not they 
actually have—made of him a better, stronger young man, 
more qualified and more confident of his ability to sit in 
the company of intelligent men and women. 

Confidence is the key-note descriptive of the Sopho¬ 
more. To say that one’s utterances are “sophomoric” 
means that said utterances are the product of an imma¬ 
ture mind; and the inference is that if the individual thus 
speaking did not have an impossible over-supply of self- 
confidence and self-esteem, said utterances would never 
have been uttered at all. As the first year of college is 
primarily one of work and routine, so the second year is 
one of expansion — and the limits of one’s expansion at 
that time are drawn only in one’s imagination. Sopho¬ 
mores are expansive, and despite what Lord Byron so 
catchily wrote about the Tree of Knowledge not being 
the Tree of Life, in the average Sophomore there can be 
found a composite illustration of both trees coming to 
bear fruit at the same time. The Sophomore knows 
everything; his powers are unlimited, his tastes unchal¬ 
lengeable, his ambition unsurpassable, and his self-satis¬ 
fied vision of life’s commonplaces and phenomena 
64 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


65 


enviable in its unrivalled clarity. If there is in this 
world any such thing as almost complete serenity, the 
college Sophomore has it. 

But it is a transient state of mind or condition of well¬ 
being, and the year moves so swiftly to an end that the 
individual hardly becomes used to this serenity before 
he is roughly shoved along, by the passage of time and 
the operation of college regulations, into that more rest¬ 
less state of being a Junior. College graduates in their 
recollections of undergraduate days invariably ease over 
their Sophomore year—the second year always seems 
least memorable after graduation, which is perfectly 
natural from the human standpoint: people who have 
arrived at the age of discreet self-respect are reluctant 
to confess that they ever were so arrogant as to have 
equated or elevated their ego to the level of Plato’s 
omniscient and omnipotent self-moved Mover. 

Yet the Sophomore age is an important age, be it ever 
so forgotten, for, once passed, the fruits of the twin trees 
of knowledge and life become more abundant and taste 
more delicious when blended. The man is much better 
off for having been a Sophomore. 

Granting all the foregoing, while at the same time rec¬ 
ognizing the great dangers of this age of omniscience— 
that there are some individuals who never outgrow their 
sophomorics — in the case of such an individual it can 
hardly be said that the man is better off for having been 
a Sophomore; ’twould no doubt have been better for him¬ 
self and better for the unfortunate people with whom 
he comes in contact, had he fallen by the educational 
wayside somewhere before the attaining of his Sophomore 
year in college. 

But then, as Riley frequently remarked, “There are 
some people who’d be a damned sight better off dead — 
and their friends would be immeasurably benefited!” 
So that is no argument. The Age of Sophomoric Expan¬ 
sion must remain a delightful and beneficial stage of 
growth. 


66 


WILD ASSES 


The Gathering of the Gang 

Beauvais came to his rooms on the afternoon of the 
Saturday before the opening of college, and found Brock 
perspiringly engaged in the task of getting settled. 

“Mr. Beauvais, I believe! ” exclaimed Brock, welcoming 
his friend with open arms. “And how the hell might you 
be, young feller?” 

“Keeripes, I’m glad to see you, Brock!” returned the 
other, continuing to shake hands vehemently while he 
talked. “I’ve been around here for a week, and am 
just about ready to commit suicide! I haven’t been able 
to find anyone that I know — until today, and then you 
and Brat both blow in.” 

“Brat? Where is he? His stuff isn’t here yet?” 
Brock glanced around the room, thinking that he might 
have failed to see evidences of Brat’s presence. 

“Oh — he’s been around for football practise for a 
week or so, I guess, but he wasn’t living here. I just 
happened to meet him up on the street — said he’d 
been staying up with another football man and would 
be over today or tomorrow. And here I’ve been all 
alone-” 

“And I suppose he didn’t come over here because he 
figured there’d be no one here yet, eh?” 

“Guess so,” replied the French Canadian, as he removed 
his coat and set in to help his roommate straighten 
around his books and clothes and other belongings. 

While they worked, Brock was wondering about this 
coming hack to college. He had half-expected to find 
his friends entirely changed after the summer’s vacation. 
It seemed somehow that they should be different — he 
felt different, himself, and was much surprised to find 
the Beau practically unchanged. 

There is a vast difference between a Freshman and a 
Sophomore, and Brock’s feeling this difference was not 
unusual. The young man grows enormously in the three 
months between the two stages of his educational growth. 
He feels larger, stronger, more capable, more confident, 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


67 


much like an old-timer in respect to his college, and 
Brock, feeling so, was naturally surprised to find that 
everything appeared to be just the same as before, even 
unto the Beau. 

The Beau, on the other hand, was not troubled by any 
such meditations upon meeting Brock, nor did he bother 
his head about his feelings when Brat and Riley made 
their reappearance. Brat seemed a little larger physi¬ 
cally and a little older in his manners, and Riley 
appeared to be a little too quiet; but aside from these 
casual observations, the Beau was ready to proceed from 
the point at which they had parted three months before. 

But Brock considered his roommates in a different 
light. He had been wondering about many things, during 
the several weeks just passed. He and Riley had attended 
the Summer School, done little else but work, go to the 
beaches every other day or so, see a few shows and talk 
to a few of the summer students who came from distant 
parts of the country. After that, Riley had gone to Cape 
Cod for his vacation and Brock had gone home to rest 
up. It was there that he had fallen into the habit of 
speculating disinterestedly upon the conditions of life 
around him, his friends, his studies, his physical handi¬ 
cap, and many other related and irrelevant matters. He 
felt that he had a different outlook on life; the very fact 
of his having but one leg gave him a view of the business 
which was denied these other whole human beings, and 
he could not refrain from his contemplation: he looked 
at life through his dark glasses, and wondered at people’s 
actions and ideas. 

“I’m just the same, Tom,” he told Riley, soon after the 
business of registration and schedule-making had left 
them all to pursue their routine of work and play. “Just 
the same, except that I never feel so shaky as I did last 
year — things aren’t worth getting excited about, as I 
look at them now.” 

“Well,” began the Irishman, who was thinking that 
perhaps this feeling of “things not being worth worry” 


68 


WILD ASSES 


was worse than his former attitude, “I don’t know just 
how I feel right now. It seems good to be back here — 
what gets me is the way other people act; everyone seems 
to be so damned unnecessarily crazy and wild these 
days!” 

“Yeh— that gets me too; everyone’s shell-shocked, I 
think; nobody seems to know where they’re going, but 
they’re on their way!” 

“I met Pick today in the Yard. I can’t decide whether 
he’s got the right dope on everything, or whether he’s 
just a damned fool kid, full of prep-school ideas.” Pick 
was not living with the others, it having been the express 
desire of his mother that he live with the scion of an old 
house whose members were very dear friends of the 
Picketts. No one of the four fellows who had lived with 
him in Smith Halls missed him so much as Riley did; 
the chronic antagonism between the two had afforded 
enjoyment to both, for each rather respected the other’s 
ideas and abilities. 

“And I don’t know how to take Brat,” Riley continued. 
“I never expected him to come in with us this year—I 
thought sure as anything that he’d go up with some of 
the ‘big boys’ to live.” 

“Brat’s all right, Tom!” rejoined Brock, “I think he 
really preferred living with us.” Which was, had he 
known, exactly the truth of the matter. Brock, Riley 
and Beauvais had found and leased the suite of rooms 
on Holyoke Street and, not expecting a favorable reply, 
asked Brat if he was coming with them. To the surprise 
of all, Brat said he wanted to do that, provided they could 
all live comfortably together there. Brat could not have 
explained the decision to himself, but the fact was that he 
really enjoyed living with these fellows, liked them all 
more than he had ever liked any other people in his life, 
and also, being a man of habits, the mere fact of having 
lived with them for one year made it seem perfectly 
natural for him to continue living with them. Pick had 
offered him a place in the rooms which he expected to 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


69 


have, and several other of the more prominent classmates 
had asked him to join them, and actually showed surprise 
when he informed them that he guessed he’d stay with 
the same fellows in his Sophomore year. And it would 
never occur to him to regret his decision. 

“Wonder when we’re going to meet his little lady 
from Ohio!” Riley was merely thinking aloud when he 
said this. Ellen had come to a college just outside of 
Boston, and Brat had been spending with her whatever 
time he had free. Riley had an idea that Brat had 
already taken Pick to meet her, and it was an entirely 
human impulse which prompted him to ask the question 
which he did of Brock. 

Brock, however, refused to even be bothered by won¬ 
dering. The mention of woman had recalled to his mind 
that he had some little troubles of his own to worry about. 
Unbeknown to his friends, he had met through a former 
soldier pal a young woman some two or three years his 
elder, who had left more than a passing imprint upon 
Brock’s impressionable mind. Although he did not know 
anything definite about her character, he suspected that 
she was not any heroine of morality ; that is, she was not 
exactly a loose lady of pleasure, but he had an idea 
that she had been none too discriminate in her pleasures 
in the course of her young life. This feature of the 
case was of course all very well in so far as Brock’s 
morals were concerned, but there was another side to 
it which was proving too frequently disturbing for his 
peace of mind. 

The truth was that Brock liked this Dora entirely too 
well, and he knew down in his heart that he shouldn’t. 
He could not respect her. She was pretty, pleasant in 
disposition and rather clever at many things; but Brock 
was disconcertingly convinced that she had been living 
her life after the fashion of Caesar’s wife, who was all 
things to all men. He was almost certain that she had 
been rather promiscuous in the bestowal of her affections, 
and the realization of this side of the case continued to 


70 WILD ASSES 

make Brock feel that he should not think so much of 
her as he did. 

At the time of the conversation between himself and 
Riley, he had known her two months, and at his last 
meeting with her she had informed him of her intention 
to move to Cambridge, in order that she might be nearer 
and more convenient to him. Therefore was Brock dis¬ 
turbed by Riley’s reference to woman in the person of 
Brat’s Ellen. 

Brock and Riley were chronic observers, being in that 
respect the opposite of Brat and Beauvais, but between 
themselves there was a difference also: Brock continued 
to see the life around him through the spectacles whose 
glass had been made black by his physical disability, 
while Riley’s interest in other things and other people, 
their motives and their aims, was the result of a natural 
curiosity which thrived in the atmosphere and environ¬ 
ment of his undergraduate position. And whereas Brat’s 
serene unconcern arose from the nature of his habits — 
his principle being always to do what had to be done and 
not worry about unnecessary things — the Beau’s attitude 
was one of complete indifference; all he asked was the 
opportunity for “Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness,” 
and he was confident that happiness of all kinds would 
be his. Other people’s affairs mattered not the least 
to either the Beau or Brat, but they were of tremendous 
importance to their two roommates. 

The college year moved on, without any great events 
or disturbing misfortunes in the lives of the four room¬ 
mates. Brock and Riley continued in their station apart, 
being more and more upon the observation platform, 
watching the passing show as it came before them. They 
watched Brat’s development and progress. 

“I can actually see the son-of-a-gun growing!” was 
Brock’s comment upon one occasion, after Riley had 
remarked upon the measure of success which had been 
Brat’s in football — he having, as a Sophomore, suc¬ 
ceeded in making the first squad by sheer hard work and 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


71 


doglike perseverance. They watched Pickett’s develop¬ 
ment, too, and Riley was still unable to decide whether 
Pickett had the right idea about college life or not. 

“He never studies — never does a lick of work until 
the night before a quiz or exam; and then he goes to The 
Wid’s or some other tutor and runs through the whole 
thing.” 

“And he isn’t clever!” exclaimed Brock, without intend¬ 
ing a disparagement of his former roommate. “He 
merely uses his head in everything — works like the devil 
at all these outside activities, and manages to get by his 
courses on nerve and tutoring help. But, though he isn’t 
clever, you have to hand it to him for getting along; he’ll 
be a big man some day.” 

“Well, I wonder,” thought Riley. “His case isn’t a 
very good commentary on life’s arrangement, if he gets 
ahead by the way he works; he doesn’t do anything that 
helps anyone else or even himself; he’s always rushing 
around, busy as hell about something that really doesn’t 
amount to two whoops in hades-” 

“Yet he’s getting along,” finished Brock. “And Brat’s 
getting along too; he’s making the best clubs, and he 
knows every son-of-a-gun in the college who amounts to 
a damn — yet he does not chase around after them. He 
doesn’t cultivate their friendship—he just ‘knows’ them, 
that’s all; but they know him, and probably because they 
haven’t any black marks against him either socially or 
otherwise, and because he’s doing the things that have 
always been traditionally the ‘things to do,’ he’s remem¬ 
bered and boosted along with the rest of the ‘uppers’ who 
are supposed to be the leaders of the college world.” 

“Well, I’m glad he’s making the grade!” commented 
his companion very sincerely. 

Brat made the grade in many ways, even in his affairs 
of the heart. Riley at first wondered just what effect 
Ellen’s presence in Boston would have upon Brat’s con¬ 
nections among the many friends to whom Pick had intro¬ 
duced him, but Brat very shortly demonstrated his ability 


72 


WILD ASSES 


to pilot his amative craft safely past all rocks and reefs, 
although he did have several moments of uncertainty. 
Ellen was still the future wife in his mind, and he con¬ 
ducted himself accordingly, for the most part, it being 
very difficult, he found, to change the habits of straying 
which had been fostered by his one year under Pick’s 
guidance. He had been exceedingly popular with the 
girls whom he had met, and the last of the long line, Eliza¬ 
beth, had been quite upset and her heart quite conquered 
by Brat’s indifferently nice attitude toward her. So upset, 
indeed, that before the summer had passed, her letters 
to Brat in Dartonville were beginning to have some effect 
upon that worthy’s attitude toward her. 

When he returned to Cambridge for the pre-season 
football training, his first free evening had gone to Eliza¬ 
beth, and she tried to make the most of it, for, had she 
admitted it, she was actually head over heels in love with 
this master of indifference, and she wanted more than 
anything else to bring him low before her. But Elizabeth 
through the mail and Elizabeth in person were two dif¬ 
ferent things to Brat; her letter-writing had been devel¬ 
oped to a fine art, so fine that Brat had really been 
touched by some of her thrusts, and really wanted to see 
her when he came back to Cambridge. But, after a sum¬ 
mer of Ellen in the environment of his young lifetime of 
habits, he was too well armored for Elizabeth to make 
any great progress against his heart, when he did finally 
see her again in person. 

That first meeting was not successful, from her point 
of view, but the very fact of its not being very successful 
served merely to stimulate her to greater endeavors in 
Brat’s direction, with the result that during the weeks 
following she contrived by fair means and foul to see 
him more frequently than should have been the case, had 
Brat been in complete control of his affairs. 

Finally, when Ellen arrived in Boston and required 
Brat’s attention, he absolutely avoided Elizabeth, not 
really because he did not want to see her — he was getting' 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


73 


the habit of that by now — but because the connection 
between himself and Ellen subordinated all other con¬ 
siderations in such directions. 

About all of which, Brat began to wonder — showing 
that he really was beginning to develop at last. He 
recalled, not long after his return to Cambridge, that all 
girls seemed to be full of this “love” business — they 
all talked of it sooner or later, either flippantly or 
seriously, and it seemed to matter much more to them 
than he had ever before suspected. He began to wonder 
just what it was all about. He wondered if he really 
loved Ellen, in the way that he should — she was no 
doubt a wonderful girl, sweet, pretty, modest, unassum¬ 
ing, altogether lovable, as he imagined the girl one loves 
should be lovable. But then — he wondered whether he 
really felt that she was the all-important female being 
whom God had placed on this earth for him — “Damn 
foolishness!” he invariably told himself whenever his 
thoughts wandered thus far. 

If Riley and Brock had been omniscient observers they 
would have noticed the causes of the change in Brat — 
a change which, though slight, was nevertheless of great 
importance, for it indicated that the Blunderbrat was at 
least growing up by a few degrees. But Brock and Riley 
only noticed that Brat was making pretty much of a col¬ 
lege success of himself, even by the middle of his Sopho¬ 
more year, and Riley’s comment upon learning that Brat 
had finally broken off all relations with the girl from 
Malden — this just before the Mid-Years — was, “Well, 
it’s about time he quit wasting his time on her! She 
never made any dent in his marble heart anyway, and 
she should have known it! I guess Brat isn’t polygamous 
by nature — he’s a one-woman man, and Ellen’s the one 
woman, it appears!” 

Perhaps Riley would have been more curious regarding 
Brat’s affairs had not Brock’s troubles suddenly pyra¬ 
mided before him, demanding all his attention. 


74 


WILD ASSES 


Relativity 

Since his coming to Harvard some fifteen months 
before, Brock had been growing steadily stronger, and 
more able to maintain a stabilized perspective of his 
troubles and their relation to the other things of life. 

This improvement stopped when he met Dora, and 
gradually Brock began to fall into his old attitudes. His 
relations with Dora were of the usual kind between a 
man and such a woman and served to weaken the vitality 
and self-control which he had succeeded in developing 
during his one year at Harvard. She was like a weight, 
pulling him back as he struggled to climb out of the 
slough of despond in which the War had left him. 
As the weeks passed, and she came to demand more of 
him and to depend more and more upon him, he found 
himself slipping farther and farther away from those 
joys and satisfactions which he had hoped might some 
day be his. 

“ Funny how much alike Dora and Ellen seem,” he 
said to Riley one day, some time after the Mid-Years 
had been successfully passed by them all. He had been 
startled upon the occasion of his first meeting with Ellen 
by the marked similarity between Brat’s girl from home 
and his loose lady of love. 

“Yes, they do look somewhat alike,” agreed his friend, 
“but they’re of entirely different breeds, Scotty.” Riley 
was entirely frank with Brock in respect to this woman 
who, Riley suspected but was not absolutely certain, was 
responsible for the retrogression which was lately so 
noticeable in Brock. 

“Entirely different breeds!” said Brock over and over 
again to himself, in the days that followed. Yes, they 
were entirely different somehow. Brat’s Ellen was so 
gentle-mannered, so human, and yet not prudish or stiff 
in her niceness, while Dora — well, she was common, 
too common! Why, he asked himself, had he ever let 
himself into such a thing? Why couldn’t he have had 
an Ellen instead of what he did have? 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


75 


The more he thought of this, the more he determined 
that it all was wrong and could not go on. He did not 
want this woman hanging upon him the rest of his life! 

He envied Brat his calm serenity, and he envied him 
his Ellen! Before long he began to envy every one, even 
Riley — he resented the operations of fortune which 
gave them everything and him nothing — he envied them 
their sound bodies, by thinking of his own mutilation; 
he decided that they had been friendly to him out of 
pity for his being thus different and handicapped; they 
looked down upon him; they thought him foolish, too. 

Once started, there was no stopping the train of his 
morbid self-attacking investigation. His imagination ran 
on and on to all the most horrible possibilities, and 
finally, after several drinks, he one day told Riley very 
bluntly that he “ felt like telling the whole shebang to 
go to hell!” He was at that moment at the very brink 
of utter demoralization, but Riley had no way of know¬ 
ing this, so the Irishman took the easiest way by agreeing 
with him absolutely, saying, “You and me both, Brock 
— I’d just as leave throw up the whole business!” 

Brock’s reaction to this, however, was not what Riley 
had expected. He flew into a rage, and hurled the most 
filthy invectives at his chum; he cursed him as a false 
friend; they were all laughing at him behind his back, 
while pretending to like him so well; why should they 
like him?—he didn’t blame them — he didn’t care 
whether they wanted him or not; they oould all go to 
hell!- 

He ran on and on, cursing in the vilest terms this 
Irishman, who was a hypocrite and a cheat, a fraud and 
a weak-kneed sister; and when he tired of that attack, 
he was forced to go through the whole argument again 
by the sudden entrance of Brat and Beauvais, whom he 
cursed in even worse terms than he had employed against 
Riley. 

No one answered him; Riley, after several futile 
attempts at calming him, tried to go about his work, 


76 


WILD ASSES 


disregarding this human volcano. Brat and the Beau 
were speechless — they could not have talked had they 
wanted to, and a sign from Riley warned them to keep 
quiet. 

Brock was wild-eyed by this time and, with a final 
curse upon them all, ending with his previous command 
that they “ all go to hell and stay there!” he lurched out 
of the room and slammed the door behind him, still mut¬ 
tering and grumbling to himself as he stumbled down the 
steps outside. 

“What’s the matter?” asked the Beau excitedly after 
the grumblings had died away. “ Is he drunk?” 

“I don’t know what’s eating him!” stated Riley, and 
then he proceeded to tell exactly what had happened. 

“ He’s gone out of his head — that’s certain!” declared 
the French Canadian. “Hadn’t we better try to get him 
back here?” 

“No — let him go!” Riley spoke with authority on 
matters concerning Brock’s streaks. “ Let him alone — 
he’ll come to and come back; I guess he’s half plas¬ 
tered.” 

So they went about their own business, and tried to 
forget Brock and his imaginary troubles. 

On the street Brock was pegging his way toward the 
Square, still grumbling to himself and almost crying in 
his rage. The world was all wrong! He had stood this 
as long as he could — it was all a joke, and why should 
he worry about it?—every one was a damned fool! 
Why should he care about what other people can or 
cannot do?—Why?—Why?—Just because he couldn’t 
do the same things — he was a cripple, half a man — no 
girl would marry him — every one pitied him — every 
one always thought of his wooden leg every time they 
thought of him — it’d be the same all through life — all 
through- 

Brock’s mind was like a seething volcano. It had been 
churning these things, these injustices, these inequalities, 
over and over ever since the moment when he came out 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


77 


of ether after his operation. He had succeeded in sub¬ 
merging the rumblings for so long that now, once started, 
there was no capping them. 

His sufferings had been long drawn out. While the 
work and associations of college life did serve to sub¬ 
ordinate his sensitive feelings somewhat, at the same 
time this very subordination and repression aggravated 
them into greater violence. He hated college and the 
whole scheme of living which college boys represented. 
He loathed the work in his courses because none of it 
seemed to lead toward any end — and he wanted results! 
He had given everything that he had, enlisted when he 
was just a kid, had come back half shattered in mind 
and in body, and he wanted something definite, some¬ 
thing to replace what he had lost. He wanted to get 
somewhere — he knew not where. He wanted something 
— he knew not what, nor where to seek it; but he knew 
he wanted something, and if that something were given 
him he would be supremely satisfied. But college was 
not giving it to him, nor was it leading him toward find¬ 
ing it. Every one just wandered along — no one knew 
what it was all about or whither they were going. 

Properly motivated, Brock’s mind was keen enough to 
master the most intricate of mathematical problems and 
philosophical propositions, but without adequate reason 
for mastering any particular problem or proposition, his 
attention could not be concentrated toward that end. 
Toward college life in general he had maintained an 
attitude of disinterested observation; he felt that he was in 
this life but not of it, for he could not enter into the vari¬ 
ous activities over which the younger boys, fresh from 
preparatory schools, waxed enthusiastic; he was detached 
from all these enthusiasms by virtue of the fact that he 
was unable to bring his mind back to the point of youth¬ 
ful enthusiasm for things—the point at which he had 
left when he entered the service of his country. He had 
tried to give the game a fair chance, and he felt that he 
was only failing as the days went by. 


78 


WILD ASSES 


He had been constantly questioning himself, mor¬ 
bidly analyzing his person and place in life and abnor¬ 
mally restless, wanting something which he felt that he 
could never get from college. When it was necessary 
to study to pass an examination or write a thesis, he 
studied sufficiently to meet the requirements, but at all 
times he had this feeling of uselessness, this constant 
temptation to laugh aloud at the whole scheme of things 
which people appeared to hold so important, which men 
seemed to live by. It all grew on him as a huge, colos¬ 
sal joke—people kidding themselves into valuing things 
which really had no intrinsic value, exalting people who 
had no virtues worthy of exaltation, and, of course, in 
the back of his mind there was ever present the conviction 
that he was wasting his time in college; he was getting 
nowhere; his work was leading to no end; he had noth¬ 
ing to look forward to, except wandering through life on 
one leg of flesh and one of wood and paper and leather 
straps. He had often told Riley, “There never seems 
to be anything ahead except the rest of my life, which 
doesn’t sound very good to me!” 

It was in the spirit of such feelings that he had let 
himself into the relationship with Dora, who, pretty 
and nice to all outward appearances, was, underneath, 
of the commonest clay. Indeed, the better Brock knew 
her, the stronger was his conviction that she was blacker 
and more unseemly than clay could be. However, she 
had succeeded in fastening herself upon him like a hor¬ 
rible drug, and she continued to make the most of the 
opportunity to get him entirely under her sway; she 
really subjugated Brock’s mind by the sheer force of 
her physical self, the drug which she administered to him. 
Her own attitude Brock never would let himself under¬ 
stand—she had never seemed to notice the fact that he 
was different, only half a man; she acted as if that were 
a mere nothing at all, of no importance whatever to her. 
And therein probably lay the real germ of the odious 
situation—Brock saw in Dora the woman who liked him 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


79 


for himself, regardless of his being, as he said, “only 
half a man.” 

What Brock did not know, however, Dora and her 
mother, who was her confidante, readily admitted to 
themselves. Brock came of excellent family, would go 
through Harvard, be a success in some line of work, 
have a good income—he would be altogether a desirable 
husband, and Dora had seen too many men to think that 
good husbands fall out of the heavens whenever one asks 
for a supply. 

But what had really set Brock off was the constantly 
recurring thought of Brat’s Ellen being so like his Dora— 
and still so unlike her. The similarity had struck him 
at a very bad time; he was just beginning to tire of 
Dora, and wanted to break away from her somehow. 
The vision of Ellen, recurring to him in that state of mind, 
made even lower the depths of self-abasement to which 
Brock was gradually descending. Riley’s companionship 
had not helped him in this, for Riley had from the be¬ 
ginning tried to get him to break away from Dora, 
and Brock could not talk to him about the matter now, 
five or six months afterwards. Yet he needed some one 
to pour out his worries to, for he was mentally adrift, 
without a tangible prospect, object or project in his 
vision. 

He had turned to the first alternative which presented 
itself to him. He determined to be rid of Dora and her 
fawning mother for once and for all—he would break 
away completely. He set about doing this. He tried to 
evade them. He would not talk to them when they called 
on the telephone. He would not answer their letters. He 
ignored their existence entirely. 

As a result there was a blank in his life—for Dora 
had been occupying quite a place there. He sought 
solace in hard study and regular hours, hoping to find 
something of interest there. But he could not be satisfied 
with aimless studying and schoolboy plugging. For want 
of something to fill up his mind and time he naturally 


80 


WILD ASSES 


turned to the usual devices of pleasure, drank more rot¬ 
ten bootleg whiskey than was good for him, chased more 
women than he could possibly entertain satisfactorily. 
And all the time he lost more and more of his self-respect, 
sank further and further into the mire of utter hopeless¬ 
ness; he went the round of idle pleasures for no reason 
at all, entertained himself by making the dodging of 
Dora into a game, in which he was forever the hare and 
she the persistent hound. The worse he became, the 
more he laughed; it was all so utterly foolish! He 
didn’t like whiskey and gin! He didn’t care especially 
about the pleasures contingent upon female companion¬ 
ship! Indeed, he didn’t care a damn about anything! 
But he kept on dodging Dora and establishing a ques¬ 
tionably enviable reputation in Harvard Square as the 
wildest, drunkenest student that had ever trod across the 
Avenue. 

A few weeks of this sort of life went a long way, 
and at the time of his flying into the rage at his room¬ 
mates, he had just come to the depths once more, tired 
and disgusted with the wild life he had been leading, 
and not certain but what he’d better go down to see Dora 
again. His mind, still churning all the injustices which 
had been accumulating without opportunity for disposal, 
exploded to the infinitesimal flame of Riley’s half-hearted 
agreement about telling “the world to go to hell!” And 
the cause of it all lay in his morbid effort to keep his 
troubles to himself; if he had discussed more frankly 
his worries and his feelings, with Riley or with his 
advisers, his mind would have traveled back to a normal 
level. As it was, it was a whirlpool of hot, volcanic 
debris. 

The physical body beneath this headful of grievances, 
grudges and resentments for self-made injustices—Brock’s 
body carried on, while his mind whirled incongruously, 
grotesquely, aimlessly, from persons to persons and things 
to things, and he pursued his grumbling, muttering, gib¬ 
bering way down the Avenue away from Harvard Square. 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 81 

He vaguely decided to call upon Dora, and avail himself 
of her ever open arms for comfort and solace. 

But neither Dora nor her mother would answer his 
knocks upon the door of their apartment, and, feeling 
vaguely that every one and everything were conspiring 
against him, he fell to kicking the door, crashing it 
with his fists and calling frantically to Dora to let him 
in. But the door remained closed and his knocking unan¬ 
swered, and he grew so exasperated by his failure that 
he stepped back, the better to consider how best he 
might break in. 

His noisy efforts, fortunately, had attracted the atten¬ 
tion of people in neighboring apartments, and presently 
a young woman, after watching him for a few moments, 
ventured to tell him that the ladies who had been living 
there had moved away a few days before. 

“Where did they move to?” demanded Brock, his 
whole frame quivering so that the informant for a moment 
wished she had not spoken to him at all. 

“Why—I don’t know for sure-,” she said hurriedly, 

“but I heard them talking about Norway Street.” 

Brock did not thank her, but turned on his heel and 
stumbled down the stairs and out of the building, and 
without looking to left or right he turned again down the 
Avenue and set out, still muttering and with eyes bulging, 
toward Boston. 

Through Central Square he went, on past that architec¬ 
tural beauty which is Tech, on across the Harvard Bridge, 
across Commonwealth Avenue, past Massachusetts Sta¬ 
tion, and turned into Norway Street, with not the least 
idea in his head as to what number he should seek. 

Just around the corner he stopped and appeared to 
consider a weighty problem; finally, cursing and snap¬ 
ping his fingers impatiently, he turned into the first 
doorway and proceeded to study the names on the mail 
boxes. Finding no clue there, he went on to the next 
entrance and repeated the process. Thence to the third, 
and the fourth, and on down the length of the street and 



82 


WILD ASSES 


back again on the other side—and without success. 
Either Dora did not live in any of these houses, or she 
was living with some one else, or her card was not in 
her mail box. Wherever she was, Brock did not know T 
where to look for her. 

Here was a definite problem; his mind came down to 
earth to master it, and by a very short process of think¬ 
ing he recalled the name of a mutual friend who would, 
no doubt, know exactly where Dora was. With a cry 
of delight he lurched into the nearest drug store and 
sought the telephone booth. After much arguing with 
operators and supervisors and informations, he succeeded 
in getting his number, only to learn that his party was 
out and would not be back until late in the afternoon. 

Brock left the booth with a string of curses which 
brought every soda and drug clerk in the place to atten¬ 
tion. They watched his progress through the store and 
out to the street with gazes of mingled curiosity and 
contempt. But Brock minded them not at all. 

He turned again down the Avenue and pegged on until 
he stood in the shadow of Symphony Hall, where once 
more he stopped to consider. He decided to walk down 
town—he felt like walking; he could walk till hell froze 
over—he could walk till that damned wooden leg fell 
off; he was just as good a man as the next one. 

So he walked, struggling on in a half-daze through 
Copley Square, along Boylston Street’s shop fronts, past 
the corner of Boston Common, to the corner of Park 
Square, where once more he stopped, this time from 
physical fatigue, for he was almost exhausted. 

He looked across the street and his glance fell upon a 
sturdy bench beside one of the walks which go like plain 
ribbons across the Common’s green. He decided to go 
there and rest for a moment, then try Dora’s friend again. 

As he stood on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for 
the traffic to pass, he heard the tapping sound of a 
walking stick behind him and felt suddenly a light blow 
on the side of his leg. Startled and ready to do battle, 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


83 


he whirled about, with a curse upon his lips which turned 
to an inaudible gurgle, for behind him, one hand out¬ 
stretched with pointing, feeling, guiding fingers, and the 
other hand holding loosely the top of a cheap cane, Brock 
saw a spectre, with staring, colorless eyes in a thin, bony 
face. 

“Blind!” concluded Brock instantly, and then, as he 
perceived the ragged hat which set upon the other’s head, 
he muttered, “You poor devil! You’re worse off than 
I am!” 

There came a pause in the traffic at this moment and 
Brock turned, anxious to be across the street, but his 
turning was interrupted by a light, pleasant, “Please,” 
which floated from the mouth of the spectre behind him. 
Abruptly Brock turned again, almost falling in the 
street in so doing, and, laying his hand upon the blind 
man’s sleeve, said, “Come on, old timer!” and led him 
safely across. 

“Is there a bench near?” asked the man, as they 
reached the opposite curb. 

“Sure—I’ll find you one!” Brock wondered at the 
pleasantness of the other’s voice, the gentleness of his 
manner. He led him over to the bench which he had 
previously seen and the man sat wearily down, saying, 
“Very good of you, my friend—thank you!” And he 
smiled. 

“Guess I’ll sit down for a while with you,” said Brock, 
whose eyes had not left the other’s face for more than a 
glance since they had arrived on the Common side of 
the street. A finer, more striking face, Brock thought, he 
had never seen except in pictures; the features which had 
at first seemed ghostlike or as those of a spectre, hideous 
and repulsive, now seemed to glow with the warmth of 
life, and the smiles which punctuated the other’s expres¬ 
sions were so inviting, so openly genuine, that Brock was 
completely taken in, entranced by this human vision who 
appeared so gentle and serene despite his monstrous 
handicap of blindness. 


84 


WILD ASSES 


So Brock sat and watched his companion, now and 
then asking questions, then again answering some, talking 
of the weather, of the birds, of automobiles, of buildings, 
of different kinds of streets, different kinds of people— 
and Brock was conscious of a growing relief. This man, 
who was going through life without being able to see, 
talked feelingly of the green of the grass, the chill of the 
day, which reminded him of the whiteness of the snow 
which lay in a thin covering over the ground about them, 
the blue of the sky—he talked of these and many other 
visible things which he could not actually see through his 
eyes but could enjoy in his imagination. And he seemed to 
mind his handicap not at all—life was life and the world 
was the world to him just as if he could see as well as 
he could feel and hear. 

Brock’s headful of churning, milling thoughts had 
suddenly come to order out of its chaos. He compared 
the other’s plight with his own, and felt utterly ashamed 
of himself for ever having considered himself unfortu¬ 
nate; how much worse off this blind man was than he! 
And yet this man could be serene and happy in spite of 
his troubles. This and many similar thoughts ran 
through Brock’s mind, and he became again sane, the 
health of his mind rejuvenated by meeting this man who 
was much worse off than himself. 

He was silent for a long time, silent until the blind 
man suddenly began to pull his coat about him and knock 
his shoes with his cane. “Well, must be up and about 
my business, friend!” he said, smiling that terribly gentle 
smile again. “Sitting here is very pleasant, but we all 
have babies, and all babies must have shoes, and we 
can’t buy shoes by sitting on the Common admiring the 
clouds and worrying about our troubles, can we?” 
Again that smile. 

“What do you do for a living?” Brock asked the 
question impulsively, sorry at once for having asked it. 

“Me?” laughed the other. “I play the piano in an 
orchestra; you should hear me!-” and he gave Brock 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


85 


the name and address of the eating-house where he played, 
adding, “Would like to see you again, so do come in! 
And again, many thanks, friend, for the helping hand.” 
He was by this time on his feet and started up the path. 

“Can’t I help you?” asked Brock, after him. 

The other turned and with a laugh asked, “Do you 
mean, can you help me play the piano or help me- here?” 
tapping the walk with his cane. “I’m afraid that perhaps 
you can play the piano better than I—so I might lose 
my job if I took you there—and about here, why I know 
this Common as you know the inside of your mouth. 
But thanks, friend—don’t mind my jokes! Good-by!” 
And he strode away, after a cheery little laugh, whistling 
happily as he tap-tapped his way along the path. 

Brock looked after him and smiled, and the longer he 
sat there looking after the departing figure the broader 
the smile grew; he could not keep from smiling to save 
himself—he wanted to cry aloud his joy! For he was 
not smiling at anything in particular, but at everything 
in general—at himself, primarily, because he was such a 
damned fool, so absurdly self-conscious and conceited 
about his misfortunes. “Why dammit all, any one’d 
think by the way I act I had a monopoly on all the suf¬ 
fering in this world!” 

Over the rise of ground across which his recent com¬ 
panion had gone, Brock could still see the top of the 
jauntily set, battered old hat, and, as it gradually 
dropped from his view he swore at himself happily, and 
said, “Hell! if that man can be blind, and still be so 
damned happy and congenial, I can be as much—I’m a 
son-of-a-gun if he’s got anything on me!” And this he 
said with much feeling, for he was genuinely and whole¬ 
heartedly relieved; the world was not wrong at all, and 
he purposed to see that his little world was especially 
beautiful and well arranged from that moment. 

His thoughts, now logical and healthy, ran on, until 
the chill of late afternoon prompted him to go on his 
way. Then he recalled his intention of calling Dora’s 


86 


WILD ASSES 


friend, and for a moment he considered what this might 
mean to him — but only for a moment; then he came to 
the conclusion that as far as he knew, Dora had suffered 
on account of the way he had treated her, and she had 
really always treated him with what seemed to be wholly 
sincere regard. “I’ll make that right, at least,” he told 
himself, as he started toward a pharmacy across the 
street. • 

He called and finally got the information he desired, 
so set out for Dora’s new address without delay. En 
route, he began to collect his thoughts, recalling the 
incidents of his day of madness, and he was thoroughly 
ashamed, so ashamed of himself that he was certain in his 
mind that he could never again look his roommates in 
the face; he had burned that bridge behind him, and the 
realization of this fact weighed so heavily upon his heart 
that long before he reached Dora’s he was ready to 
break down and cry—“cry like a baby, dammit!” as he 
told himself. 

But he went on to Dora’s — and, once with her, was 
strengthened in his determination to stay away from his 
friends in Cambridge. 

Back at the rooms, as day after day passed and Brock’s 
absence continued, his roommates wondered and later 
worried about him. Their worries took several avenues. 
“It’s hard telling where the devil he went to,” said Riley, 
for perhaps the twentieth time since Brock’s day of mad¬ 
ness. “He may have gone home, drunk and crazy—he 
may have gone to Dora — may even have married the 
woman by this time; he may have had an accident, got 
run over by a street car or something — he may be down 
in some South End dive — God only knows what’s hap¬ 
pened to him!” 

“Well, he hasn’t been around here—we know that,” was 
Brat’s comment. 

“No, and it seems darned funny, because he must he 
sober by this time, he’s been gone over a week now!” 
Riley was becoming more and more disturbed. 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


87 


Finally, when two weeks had passed and Brock still 
failed to appear, Riley decided to look for him. He tried 
Brock’s home first and, having visited his friend’s people 
at various times during the first and second years, had 
to disguise his voice and give a fictitious name when 
he asked if they could tell him where Brock might be 
located. 

“Why, we haven’t heard from Scott for over two 
weeks! He is in Cambridge, I think—probably very 
busy,” his mother informed the Irishman, ending by giv¬ 
ing him their address and telephone number. Riley 
thanked her, and decided at once that all was not well 
with his friend or he would have at least called his folks 
on the telephone. 

He knew Dora’s old address, so he went there at once, 
it being about a ten-minute walk from Harvard Square. 
There he finally learned from the neighbor woman who 
had suggested Norway Street to Brock, that Dora and her 
mother had returned a few days before to get some arti¬ 
cles which they had left in their apartment. “And I’m 
sure,” said the woman, “that they are living somewhere 
on Norway Street, but at what number I haven’t the least 
idea.” 

Riley thanked her and went on to Norway Street, where 
he went through the same procedure that Brock had fol¬ 
lowed two weeks before. He walked the full length of the 
street and back, examining all the names on the mail 
boxes and bell-buttons, but at the end he had not the 
slightest clue to Dora’s new abode. He walked across 
Massachusetts Avenue and stood rather dumbly on the 
corner of the street, watching the passing throngs. It 
was late in the afternoon, and the traffic was growing 
heavier and heavier along the Avenue, so heavy that 
finally Riley decided to re-cross in order to gain a more 
commanding view of Norway Street. He had an idea that 
perhaps Brock or Dora or her mother might appear and 
thus lead him to their new apartment. One of Boston’s 
largest movie palaces near by was beginning to disgorge 


88 


WILD ASSES 


its afternoon audience, and the Irishman, with one eye 
trained on the houses along Norway Street, watched with 
the other the faces that came out of the theater. 

The crowd was dwindling to a line of stragglers, and 
Riley was on the point of giving up any hope of help 
from that quarter, when suddenly he saw before him the 
object of his search, and beside him, clinging to his arm, 
walked Dora. Impulsively Riley stepped forward, anx¬ 
ious to greet his roommate, but before he spoke another 
impulse stopped him and he waited for them to pass, 
thinking that perhaps Brock would halt when he saw him. 

But Brock—Riley was not certain that Brock saw him, 
but he noticed that he quickly averted his gaze—walked 
by him without so much as a nod of recognition. Riley 
stood staring after them, considered a moment and fol¬ 
lowed closely behind them. 

He caught up with them as they entered an apartment 
house some little distance down Norway Street—a house 
which, Riley recalled, he had inspected very closely 
without finding any indications of their living there. 

“Scotty!” greeted the Irishman, slapping him on the 
back and murmuring a “Good afternoon!” to Dora. 

Brock hesitated a moment, as if he did not intend to 
answer his greeting. Dora said a perfunctory word or 
two, and finally Brock murmured, “How are you, Tom? 
What can we do for you?” His tone implied that he did 
not relish this meeting at all. 

“Why—I just wanted to see you, Scotty—would like to 
talk to you-” 

Brock looked to Dora for an answer and she finally 
suggested, “Let’s all go upstairs—you may as well be 
comfortable while you’re talking.” 

So they went upstairs and into her apartment, where 
they fell into a conversation about inconsequentials and 
unnecessaries, characterised chiefly by many strained 
silences and ultra-polite questions and answers. Dora’s 
presence served as a wet blanket upon whatever enthusi¬ 
asm Riley and Brock might otherwise have felt. Riley 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


89 


said to himself that he wished she would go about doing 
something, so that they might be alone, but Dora showed 
no inclination to do anything other than take part in their 
conversation. So they talked about things that did not 
matter, avoiding sedulously any reference to the subject 
which was uppermost in the minds of both the men, and 
which Dora knew to have been the reason for Riley’s call. 

Finally Riley decided to talk about it, regardless of 
Dora’s persistent presence, so he said, “The college office 
will be sending out notices for you, Scotty, if you don’t 
attend some of your classes! You haven’t been to a 
class for a couple of weeks, have you?” 

As a matter of fact, Brock had not been near a class, 
and had been trying in vain to readjust his life with the 
idea of not going back to college at all, much to Dora’s 
distress and avowed opposition. 

“He absolutely refuses to go!” she exclaimed, as if 
she had spent many impatient moments on this account. 
“He makes me tired—he might as well go back and finish 
his work, no matter what he intends to do; but no, he 
wants to stay as far away from the college as he can 
get!” 

Brock started to give his version of the case but stopped 
without saying anything definite. The truth was that the 
idea had developed in his mind that he had made an 
awful fool of himself in and around the Square and the 
college, and in consequence of this he thought the 
easiest way for him would be the way which did not lead 
back to his friends and his classes. Beside, he knew how 
every one looked upon Dora, and the fact that he had re¬ 
turned to her—with excellent motives, at first—would 
make him feel even more ashamed in the company of his 
friends at the Square. 

“Oh, what’s the idea, Scotty?” asked Riley, as if the 
other’s attitude was utterly foolish. “You can never 
get drunk without talking about quitting college! And 
you know darned well you really want to stick and fight it 
out—so come on back and forget about that stuff!” 


90 


WILD ASSES 


“I haven’t had a drink for three days!” announced 
Brock, belligerently, proudly. “Anyway, I can’t come 
back now without a lot of trouble; how the dickens could 
I explain my absence from classes? The dean would be 
on my neck in a minute; and I’ll bet he knows already 
I’ve been on an awful spree, so whatever I might say 
would just make me out a liar.” 

Riley guessed that Brock really wanted to return, 
that he was arguing merely to be consistent, and he said, 
“Forget it—you come on with me and I’ll get a letter 
from a doctor saying that you’ve been sick for the past 
two weeks under his care. The dean will never bother to 
ask anything about it—the college doctor’ll fix it all up 
tout de suite! Now, what d’you say?” 

Brock, however, continued to argue, bringing up all 
sorts of irrelevant little obstacles, which the Irishman pa¬ 
tiently explained away so thoroughly that at last Brock 
agreed that he might come back, at which Riley looked at 
Dora, expecting a smile of happiness, but saw instead an 
expression of worry—probably, thought the Irishman, be¬ 
cause she thought this meant losing her Scotty again. 

“Fine!” he declared, looking back to Brock. “When 
will you be up?” 

“Oh, I’ll come over tomorrow morning and fix it up,” 
said Brock. 

Riley thought that the sooner he came the better off he 
would be, but Brock would not consent to go back with 
him. 

“I’ll be over tomorrow!” was all he would say, 
explaining that he would have to call up a business house 
in town with which he had been trying to get a job, so 
finally Riley gave up his argument, and after a few more 
generalities, departed. 

The next morning the Irishman cut two classes waiting 
for Brock to appear, but at tw r elve o’clock he declared 
with some heat that he guessed Brock had been joking, 
and would probably not come back at all. Having said 
this to Brat and the Beau, he departed to attend his 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


91 


twelve o’clock class, feeling much put out by Brock’s 
non-appearance. 

Just before the one o’clock class bell sounded, the door 
of their room flew open and disclosed to the view of 
Brat and the Beau their prodigal roommate, who con¬ 
tinued to stand speechless and leaning upon his heavy 
cane while he stared dazedly into the room. 

For several moments no one spoke and Brock made 
no move to enter. The Brat said jokingly, “Cripes 
sake, Scotty, come in and close that door before we all 
catch pneumonia!” The Beau laughed, saying, “Scotty, 
you old son-of-a-gun!” and Brock swayed unsteadily into 
the room and sat down in the nearest chair. 

“Whew-pee!” he sighed, removing his hat and throw¬ 
ing it with his cane in the general direction of the waste 
basket. “Whew-pee! Hadn’t had a drink for three days 
until I met a fren’ from the army—fellow’s in the army 
same time I was but never saw’m till today! Never 
saw him ’fore ’n ma life—had to come all way back here 
t’ meet that man—and he’s bootlegger! ’N here I am, 
ready to be stujent again!” He laughed inanely, and 
his roommates laughed with him, for they were almost 
speechlessly overjoyed to have him back with them 
again. 

When Riley returned and discovered Brock his un¬ 
mingled joy at seeing him there in their rooms again was 
cut short by the maudlin condition in which he had 
returned. He fell upon him then, and cursed him out as 
of old in no uncertain terms, and when he had finished, 
Brock merely smiled sheepishly at him—he really enjoyed 
hearing the Irishman burst into these fiery fits, even if he 
himself was the object of the tirade. 

“You’re absolutely the damnedest man I ever saw,” 
Riley wound up. “How in holy hell do you think you 
can convince the doctor you’ve been sick in bed for two 
weeks when you blow in like this?” 

“I no know!” muttered Brock. “You said you’d fix it 

up.” 


92 


WILD ASSES 


“Fix it up? I will, all right! Have you got a drink 
on you?” 

“Sure—brought you a pint!” Brock’s eyes sparkled 
at this proof of his own good intentions. He drew from 
his overcoat pocket a pint bottle, almost full, and handed 
it to the Irishman. “There y’ are!” 

Riley took the bottle, pulled the cork, sniffed of the 
contents and crashed it into the fireplace as if he were 
absolutely disgusted with his friend. “Now,” he stated, 
pointing his finger at Brock, to emphasize his points, 
“you don’t get another drink today, nor tomorrow, nor 
the next day! By cripes, you’re going to college, if we 
have to tie your hands and feet and carry you to classes, 
but we’re not going to carry you up there half-cast every 
day! No more liquor until you’re all straightened out at 
the office and in your courses! D’ you understand, you 
dumb ass?” 

Brock nodded his head in the affirmative and mumbled 
something to the Beau to the effect that “Tom Riley sure 
is one hell of a guy to treat me like this!” But down 
deep in his heart he enjoyed the abuse which Riley 
heaped upon him, and the domineering attitude which the 
Irishman assumed toward him—so unlike the considerate, 
condescending, pseudo-hearty back-slappings of other 
people. 

So Brock came back; but he soon found that he had 
lost most of what he had previously gained, for he once 
more had Dora burdening him and his experience of the 
past few weeks had left him much worse off in many 
ways. He could not go on from the point at which he 
had left his affairs; he soon got into the routine of work 
and play which was necessary for meeting the college 
requirements, but the strength and health of his mind 
had been much reduced, despite the little lesson in rela¬ 
tivity which the blind man on Boston Common had taught 
him. 

In one way he had gained much from that lesson: as 
the weeks passed, bringing chilly spring and its “fever” 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


93 


to them all, Brock steadfastly refused to let himself 
indulge to any extent in self-pity—and that had been his 
greatest weakness before that day of madness. He still 
had streaks and fits of despondency and discouragement, 
due to the fact that he could not seem to raise any hopes 
for the future, or any worthwhile ends for his college 
course. The business of living was an awful tangle in 
his eyes. His relations with Dora grew increasingly dis¬ 
satisfying and worrisome, for the physical similarity 
between Brat’s so-nice Ellen and his so-common Dora 
still persisted in his mind and he hated himself with every 
thought of it. 

During this time, as the Beau went on his happy- 
hearted and carefree way, and Brat continued to succeed 
in everything he attempted, Brock and the care of him 
served Riley in a way such as Brock would never have 
believed, for the truth was that Riley had been in a dan¬ 
gerously unsettled mental state when he came back from 
the War and, had he not come to the point where he had 
constantly to think of Brock and his troubles, he would 
probably have developed in much the same way as Brock 
was developing. He would have felt hopeless and aim¬ 
less, had he not the picture and example of Brock’s worse 
condition ever before him as a warning. 

As he told the Beau that spring, “You know, Beau— 
by craps, when I begin to get upset and worried about 
everything, wondering what it’s all about and feeling 
like kickin’ hell out of the works and beating it for parts 
unknown, Brock comes along and pulls some damned 
fool trick which checks me right up short! And he’s 
such a damned fine man and it is so damned tough on a 
young fellow like him, that I just say to myself, ‘What 
the hell are you kicking about?’ and proceed to go about 
my business as if everything was perfectly all right!” 

“I think that way myself sometimes,” agreed the Beau. 
“I feel like tearing out and getting so drunk my eyes 
would cross—but if I do, Brock will, and I figure why 
the devil not let well enough alone!” 


94 


WILD ASSES 


“Brock was saying the other day that no mother ought 
ever to regret that her son lost his life in the War—he 
said the man who died at the height of glory and full 
of a great cause was a lucky man! He said he wished 
he’d been killed in that dugout, instead of wounded as he 
was—the worst part of life is having to live on after the 
high spot is passed.” 

“Yeh?” The Beau smiled, uncertain as to what his 
roommate was driving at. 

“Brock meant that he would have preferred to have 
been killed at what was probably the greatest point in 
his whole life—for he can’t see anything higher ahead of 
him—and that’s what’s wrong with him these days—his 
spirit is still soaring around that pinnacle, while his body 
has to live in this commonplace workaday world, full of 
dizzy flappers, money chasers and stupid pedants!” 

“Well?” said his companion, really absorbing the 
spirit of Riley’s thinking. “I’d just as leave tell him I’m 
glad he lived long enough to come here with us!” Which 
was as near to an emotional expression as the carefree 
Beau could come. 

“Guess we’ve all gained by knowing him!” concluded 
the other. “And I wish something would happen to give 
him another pinnacle to anticipate—he’s losing under the 
present arrangement just because we’re gaining; he can’t 
benefit by knowing us as we benefit by knowing him; he 
needs something, and damned if I know what it is!” 

“If that damned woman’d lay off him, he’d pick up 
again!” declared the Beau, and abruptly changed the 
subject to more pleasant topics. 

On through the pleasant days of spring the omniscient 
sophomores lived lazily, studying now and then, going 
on parties now and then, worrying a little over big things 
and a lot over little things now and then, each following 
his own line of growth and development. Brat made the 
clubs that count, was appointed to class committees, went 
the rounds of social and academic activities, went con¬ 
tentedly on his way with Ellen near at hand. His habits 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


95 


grew on him; he would have been almost able to admit, 
had he been asked, that he liked his roommates better 
than he had ever liked any one in his life; he never had 
to bother his head over agreeing or disagreeing with their 
ideas or their plans, but went along unruffled in his rou¬ 
tine, laughing at some of the futile things they attempted, 
smiling at Riley’s fervid harangues against people and 
things, wondering sometimes at Brock’s ideas and his 
chronic troubles—altogether a peaceful, gradually devel¬ 
oping college success, who without expending such time, 
money and energy as Pickett did to make his way, never¬ 
theless had not cause to envy that young perseverant his 
successes. 

Early in the year Brat had made several ineffectual 
attempts to bring his roommates into the circle of his 
more prominent friends, but they were not welcomed by 
the members of that circle, chiefly because Riley was a 
natural-born “outsider,” and all the petty pretensions, 
affectations and inconsequential features of most of these 
“uppers” (as he called them) grated on his nerves, and 
were absolutely indigestible in Brock’s system. As Brock 
told Brat, “Sweet rosies and pet princes and god-awful 
handshakers, a bunch of parrots chock full of their own 
importance—think they’re under surveillance every mo¬ 
ment they’re on the street! I can’t stomach the atmos¬ 
phere of immature gall that’s about them! They don’t 
mean a damned thing in anybody’s life, and they’re too 
damned stupid to realize it!” 

“Aw, Scotty—come off it!” Brat would answer such 
verbal portraits of his friends. “There are a lot of good 
fellows around and you know it! Pick’s all right, isn’t 
he?” 

“The worst one in the bunch!” exclaimed the Beau, still 
mindful of the incident at the Jubilee the previous 
year. 

Brat smiled and hurried on to name several other 
friends, chaps who really were clever, intelligent and 
human, with none of the piggishness which Brock so 


96 


WILD ASSES 


deplored. And Brock agreed, “There are a lot of good 
fellows around, of course—but what I object to is the 
slews and slews of parasites, hand-shakers, hangers-on 
and social shadows that flit around here so damned im¬ 
portantly, speak to you one day and snub you the next, 
just because they’re trying to appear busy as hell, with 
not even time enough to nod to friends and acquaintances 
on the street!” 

“Sure, Pick’s a good kid in most ways, and so is Bart¬ 
lett and March and a lot of others; but their friendship 
costs too much to be worth cultivating; they’re good 
fellows, but, except in cases of accident, their friends 
have either been born their friends or they are made 
because there’s some mutual benefit in the friendship— 
which is all very well, of course, but what have I got that 
could possibly be of any value or benefit to any of those 
people?” 

“One’s personality — the inimitable worth of one’s 
self!” declaimed Brock, striking an Ed Pinaud hair 
tonic pose which was almost a sneer and which brought 
the conversation to an abrupt termination. 

June came, with it final exams, in which each of 
the four managed to make passing grades. Other mat¬ 
ters drifted along in not unnatural ways—Brat and Ellen, 
still the matter-of-course lovers, went to Dartonville by 
the same train, just before Harvard Class Week started; 
the Beau, whose academic record was dangerously shaky, 
causing him therefore much mental unrest, left for his 
home in Maine immediately after his last exam, prom¬ 
ising Riley and Brock to return for summer school, 
if his grades, when he received them, were so low as to 
endanger his promotion to the Junior Class. 

“Otherwise,” said the Beau in his farewell, “we’ll all 
get drunk in September—and don’t lose all your money 
so you have to sell our furniture!” 

“Bring back something good!” was Riley’s parting 
word, and the Beau, carrying more baggage than any 
other single man who ever came to Cambridge, disap- 


THE AGE OF OMNISCIENCE 


97 


peared in the interior of the taxi which he had called to 
take him to North Station. 

Brock and Riley saw Brat and Ellen off to Ohio, then 
dropped into an Italian joint in the North End, where 
they ate spaghetti, although they could not roll it suc¬ 
cessfully on their forks, and drank much red wine, 
although neither of them could really enjoy the mis¬ 
erable stuff; after which they went back to Cambridge, 
fairly well warmed internally, and spent the better part 
of a dollar in making telephone calls with the intention of 
stirring up something of interest to excite themselves. 
Brock could not call on his Dora, as was his custom when 
the wine had flowed freely in and around him, for 
through the machinations of Riley’s genius, he had 
told Dora he would not be in Cambridge until September, 
and after much explaining and arguing had succeeded 
in making her believe this fabrication, with the result 
that on this night of Brat’s departure his crippled room¬ 
mate was unusually exhilarated, almost unrestrainable 
in anticipation of his impending freedom. 

In the end, after many calls had failed to establish 
any interesting connections, he and Riley wandered to 
their oddly hollow-sounding rooms and went to bed, their 
minds turning over, as the last topic before they bade 
each other good night, the realization of the fact that, as 
Brock said, “We’ve been here where the Crimson in tri¬ 
umph flashes and her sons to the jubilees throng, for two 
years—we’ll be graduates before we realize we’ve been 
Freshmen!” 

And Riley’s last words “Tempus sure do fugit!” were 
apropos of the same thought. 






1 













Old Man Experience! Only to the music of his fiddle 
do we really trip the toe of learning . 

Said Riley: “Men live by women, but the flapper lives 
by men—they are her raison d’etre! She ceases to exist 
except as regards men ” 

“Cheapen women and you cheapen life! But the 
flapper and the 6 good sport 9 are cheap—in the estimation 
of every man who benefits by their little generosities and 
relaxations. The party girl cannot call forth respect 
from any man who can suspect that she does with every 
man what she does with him!” 

“Emerson said, ‘If you want something, pay the price 
and take it ’ But these excited flappers of elastic morals 
usually give up a lot of things that are not necessary to 
get what they think they want—they pay a dollar-and-a- 
half check with a fifty-dollar bill and never miss the 
change at all! They are so wise—to the ends of their 
noses; the really clever girl realizes that the laiv of com¬ 
pensation applies to herself and acts accordingly . . ” 

A polios and Aphrodites may be the wildest of wild 
asses . 









CHAPTER IV 


Types and Exceptions 

Freshmen are generally supposed to know nothing— 
and to realize that they are in a state of ignorance; what 
they do not know, however, they confidently expect to 
learn by the time they become Sophomores. Freshmen 
are supposed to work and learn, and their ignorance 
should be blissful, since work does conduce toward peace 
of mind, even though the worker may not happen to 
know what the work is all about. 

Sophomores are graduated Freshmen; they know all 
there is to know. They move in an atmosphere of omnis¬ 
cience. Toward Freshmen, those puerile neophytes, they 
maintain an attitude of patient condescension and calm 
superiority; toward upper-classmen they are inwardly 
admiring and envious, but outwardly blase and impor¬ 
tantly assuming; as for everything else in the college 
world and outside, nothing matters. 

Juniors are not graduated Sophomores: the Junior 
is really an upper-classman, entitled to his doubts about 
all the world that’s about him. He does not broadcast 
the fact of his being a Junior: he assumes unconsciously 
that his very nonchalant air and intelligent attitude 
toward things will disclose the fact to even the most 
casual observer. But the Junior has no overdeveloped 
sense of his own knowledge of life, for it is generally the 
case that in a man’s Junior year he begins to have real, 
genuine doubts about himself and about all that other 
people are supposed to know; he becomes a critic, some¬ 
times outspokenly, sometimes quietly, wonderingly, but 
he is a critic with leanings toward skepticism. 

Rules, to be proved, require exceptions, of course, and 
the exceptions which prove these generalities about the 
98 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


99 


stages of mental development of undergraduates can be 
seen in the case of Brock and his friends, for Brock’s sec¬ 
ond year at Harvard was anything but a peaceful sopho- 
moric development; the troubles, self-inflicted to be sure, 
and the mental unrest which so nearly ruined his college 
career, were exceptional in that Brock’s troubles did not 
come from any feeling of the omniscient patience which 
usually develops in Sophomores; his difficulties arose 
from his inability to consider himself as a being endowed 
with unlimited powers. Brock was a unique college 
figure, and the fellows who were his friends were each 
traveling a different avenue of development, for Riley 
and the others could profit by Brock’s example much 
better than from the examples and teachings set forth 
by their instructors. So it was that, although Brat con¬ 
tinued to advance along the natural course, with very 
few indications of ever arriving at any startling or 
disturbing realizations or wanderings, he and Riley and 
the Beau came into their Junior year strengthened by 
the companionship of Brock and more readily skeptical 
about the whole procedure than the ordinary run of 
Sophomores could be—for even the Blunderbrat was 
beginning “to show signs of being a living organism,” 
as Riley once opined. 

“Disguise our bondage as we will 
’Tis woman , woman , rules us still.” 

—Moore’s “Sovereign Woman.” 

After a summer spent in the greatest bore that was ever 
invented—a summer school—and at several seaside re¬ 
sorts, Brock returned to his studies in September anxious 
to see some one. To himself he admitted that he wanted 
to see a girl whose features were those of Ellen, and 
also to himself he admitted that he would probably see 
only Dora. He had spent a good summer. Riley had 
conceived the idea of finding as many different types 
of girl as he could for Brock to meet, hoping that 
in this way he might break down the domination which 


100 


WILD ASSES 


Dora—who, in Riley’s eyes, was unspeakably impos¬ 
sible—seemed to wield over his roommate. Brock had 
succumbed to the treatment, had gone on many little 
parties with the various girls whom the Irishman brought 
together, and had tried to interest himself in every one of 
them. 

“But, Tom,” he admitted, in talking over some of 
their parties, just after the close of the Summer School, 
“most of them are so utterly crazy—dizzy—foolish— 
interested in nothing but all-night dances, roadhouse 
parties, petting parties in parked cars and all the rest! 
Honestly, it’s hard to carry on a conversation—and 
enjoy it—with a girl whose ideas are all affectations, and 
whose curiosity about things that matter is all make- 
believe! I’m getting so I don’t bother my head about 
whether they like me or not—I don’t worry at all as to 
whether they want to be friendly, intimately so, with me 
as I am. They just don’t matter to me, that’s all!” 

Which was good, according to the Irishman’s way of 
looking at the matter. “You should be able to get a 
lot of good work done this year, feeling that way about 
the fair damsels,” he said. 

This Brock fully expected to do, regardless of what¬ 
ever influence Dora might seek to have over his destiny 
—and he admitted that he would like to see her, or 
Ellen—but every time he thought of his liking for Ellen 
he felt ashamed of himself for feeling that way about 
Brat’s girl, Brat being a friend of his. “Now if I had 
never known Brat at all,” he said to himself, jokingly, 
“I might press my suit there, but, as is, I can’t apd 
remain a white man.” So he intended to see Dora just 
by way of accepting a substitute. 

Brat also returned to Cambridge looking for some¬ 
thing, but Brat did not know just what it was that he 
wanted. He had spent a dull summer in Dartonville. 
Ellen had been seriously ill practically all the time. 
He had stuck pretty close to home, although he did go 
on several little parties which had been promoted for 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


101 


him by his sister Lois. All in all he had had a dull 
summer—he missed “the gang” and the associations in 
Cambridge which he had grown to consider as part of 
himself, his life. 

Ellen’s illness had prevented the two from having any 
of the good times which might otherwise have served to 
break the monotony of the days, and her illness had 
lingered on so long that it had been decided by her 
mother and the family doctor that she was not physically 
strong enough to go back to school in September; so 
Brat had returned to Boston alone, but not even sorry 
that Ellen was not with him. “She’ll get well and be 
perfectly happy around home,” he told himself, wonder¬ 
ing in the next instant what excitement the gang would 
have planned for the opening of college. He almost 
felt like going on a party—but then he wouldn’t, because 
he had given Ellen his usual promise to make her know 
that everything was still all right. He still accepted the 
imposed connection with Ellen as a matter of fact— 
she’d be his wife some day, and they’d settle down and 
live just as every one else lived. 

As it happened, there was little temptation for Brat 
to forget his future wife for the sake of a little excite¬ 
ment in Cambridge, for after he arrived, his attention 
was immediately taken up by the football training 
activities, and before many days had passed, his energies 
were also rather well taken up in this way, for the 
practice sessions were strenuous daily affairs, and Brat 
was in none too good condition after his lazy summer 
at home. 

After the training season was once started in full swing 
Brat fell into his groove, and went on his routine way 
of living, which was not difficult as long as the foot¬ 
ball competition occupied his time and attention. Beside, 
Riley and the Beau failed to tear out on any wild cele¬ 
brations upon the occasion of College’s reopening, for 
the Beau returned with bad news from home which 
affected considerably . his financial situation, and the 


102 


WILD ASSES 


thought of Brock’s going out of his head under the 
influence of liquor also served to restrain their other¬ 
wise wild impulses toward excitement. 

So the fall moved on. Brat made the ’Varsity in the 
early games, and also made a “final” club, member¬ 
ship in which added prestige to his name around the 
Yard. He had been proposed for this club by Pick, 
who even in his Junior year was assuming the pro¬ 
portions of a leader and presiding genius in various 
activities in the college. Pick now and then, very in¬ 
frequently, dropped into Brat’s rooms and passed a 
few minutes with his friends of Freshman days, but 
these visits only proved to him and to Riley and Brock 
that they really had but very little in common, and that 
their friendship was entirely too superficial to amount 
to anything for either party. 

It seems to be universally true that time will pass 
regardless of whatever efforts man may take to retard 
its passing, and there is such a thing as an over-burdened 
man, temporally speaking. Every man must do some¬ 
thing, if only to develop a fine ability to do nothing. 
One’s day must be passed somehow, and in the case of 
college undergraduates, if they do not pass their time 
in following the flowing bowl and the flapping frocks, 
their energies must be turned into other channels, either 
their college studies or such extra-curricular activities 
as athletics, publications, musical clubs, or that more 
widely cultivated form of play known under the generic 
term “gambling,” which includes such indiscreet prac¬ 
tices as are provided by Ethiopian square-marbles and 
pasteboard tickets for sleepless nights. 

The Beau’s financial condition precluded his taking 
any too great interest in either the flowing bowl or 
these latter mentioned indiscretions, and he soon found 
himself in the sad predicament of having to choose 
between studying and going to work to earn money where¬ 
with to buy tickets for his customary pleasures. He 
chose to study at the beginning of the year, and, before 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


103 


he quite understood what possibilities were contained 
in this rash choice, he discovered that Riley and Brock 
also had turned studious—chiefly for want of excitement. 
Their studies proved not so bad after all, and brought 
before them many things of interest which they had 
never believed to be existent in college textbooks. 

“By George,” exclaimed Riley, in the course of a 
casual survey of the routine of college work, the chief 
consideration in which had been the question of how 
to go through college doing nothing at all, “I think 
some good man could dope out the whole college pro¬ 
gram of studies and summarize the contents of every 
course in about five or six curricula, so that any man 
taking any one of those curricula could walk right 
through college to his degree by attending his classes 
and boning up on the summaries which had already 
been prepared; and all this hurry and flurry before 
exams would be eliminated.” 

Brock quite agreed with him. “I know for one thing,” 
he said, “that I’ve had at least three courses in this 
place which required three lectures each week for eighteen 
weeks, and which could have been as thoroughly and 
satisfactorily covered in less than half that time; there’s 
a hell of a waste somewhere, and it’s not in the so-called 
snap courses, either.” 

“Oh, hell!” exclaimed the Beau, interrupting; “there 
ain’t no such animal as a snap course any more. Cripes! 
I signed up for this Fine Arts course, and thought I had 
an understanding with the instructor that it would be 
eaS y —maximum results for minimum efforts! and that 
son-of-a-gun has loaded us down with reading for his 
asinine quizzes, and he gives a quiz every week!” The 
Beau was quite put out by this evident breach of good 
faith on the part of an instructor in a course which 
every one had always, from time immemorial, con¬ 
sidered to be a “snap.” “Why, it’s a shame! I spend 
more time on that blooming Fine Arts than on any other 
subject, and I haven’t the least interest in the stuff!” 


104 


WILD ASSES 


“Serves you right!” returned Riley. “You never see 
me picking snap courses—I learned my lesson a long 
time ago; took a Music course in that first Summer 
School, and figured no one had to do any work—remem¬ 
ber, Brock? We both got the lowest possible D’s for the 
course and the instructor thought it a good joke on us!” 

“And it was—a hell of a fine joke!” commented 
Brock. 

“But it taught me that lesson which you’re learning 
now, Beau—which is, that it’s much more economical and 
gratifying to choose courses in which you might pos¬ 
sibly find something of interest to you!” 

“But what good does that do?” demanded the irate 
Beau. “Even then you’re liable to catch a crab and 
find yourself up against the toughest kind of a course!” 

“Even so,” said Riley, “you at least have the satis¬ 
faction of studying something you can enjoy by force 
of interest. In courses that you’re interested in, any¬ 
way, there’s more likelihood that you’ll do a little study¬ 
ing now and then, and it won’t seem like work!” 

They talked about these undergraduate problems very 
often during the early weeks of that fall when the Beau 
was financially broke and Brat was spending every 
afternoon at the Stadium. They all became more 
interested in the workings of the College, the various 
lines which the individual could follow both in college 
and after graduation, the practical value of their courses. 
Brock could sometimes see in his work something that 
he might like to follow up after graduation; sometimes 
it was a bit of detail connected with one of the pro¬ 
fessions; at other times it was a section of reading 
concerned with some phase of business administration, 
industry or commerce. They all began to look forward 
rather than backward, thinking of what they might do 
after college days had passed; there was never any 
question in their minds about earning a living, for at 
that time Harvard Square was flooded with money, and 
business everywhere was flourishing, so that the three 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


105 


students could not conceive of anyone’s not being able to 
make an adequate income. Their chief consideration 
was in regard to doing the things one might want to do. 

For the three, this was not entirely and at all times 
true; for the Beau very often had slight qualms about 
this question of earning a living. His allowance from 
home had been suddenly reduced, and he had come to 
find his financial shoes more pinchy than comfortable, 
so pinching, indeed, that on one occasion he burst out 
in righteous indignation over a very slight detail which 
concerned him not at all. 

The detail was a bit of news in the Crimson to the 
effect that some widow of a millionaire banker had 
died, leaving her entire fortune to Harvard University 
to be used as the authorities might consider best. The 
Beau read this when he had not a nickel in his pocket. 
He exploded, “How in the name of all that’s sacred do 
these rich old women get that way? Why in the name 
of rolling fat don’t somebody leave some money to be 
divided among us poor sons-of-guns that need it?” 

His questions were directed at Brock, who answered, 
“But it will be used for the benefit of the students— 
indirectly. They will probably build a couple of dormi¬ 
tories—which we need—or get more instructors to feed 
the flock—or establish some new loan funds for worthy 
students.” 

“From all of which we get nothing; we can’t eat 
dormitories or instructors—these old birds who die and 
leave money for buildings give me acute, shootin’ pains 
where pains are preciously inconvenient! Why the devil 
don’t they lay out their money and call in all the worthy 
students to help themselves?” 

“But you can go over there and borrow some money 
if you need it,” replied Brock. “If you’re broke, go 
see the Dean and tell him a hard luck story. He’ll 
let you have seventy-five or a hundred for a year. Why 
don’t you do that?” 


106 


WILD ASSES 


“Yeh—he’ll probably throw me the hell out of his 
office for having nerve enough to ask him!” 

“Well, it’s worth trying, isn’t it? You never can 
tell.” 

The Beau considered the matter for a moment, then, 
reaching for his hat, declared, “By Cripes, I’m going 
to try him!” 

He slammed the door behind him as Brock wished him 
luck, and turned back to his book. 

Half an hour later he returned, tore off his hat and 
coat and exhibited a check for twenty-five dollars. “And 
I had a fine time getting that much!” he exclaimed 
disgustedly. “That dog-goned man says I’m the worst 
loafer in Harvard College, might just as well go out 
and go to work as keep on loafing around here, and he 
wouldn’t believe that I’m studying now. Said he’d 
heard so many such fairy tales that he could not be 
expected to believe any of them.” 

The Dean had also told him that if he did not get down 
to business and make better grades his connection with 
the University would be short-lived. “Your classrooms 
are not playgrounds, Beauvais!” he had said, “nor are 
your instructors mere entertainers; they have their work 
and you have yours, but it’s part of their work to see 
that you do yours, so get busy.” 

But the Beau was indignant over the meagre generosity 
which produced only twenty-five dollars—even though 
that amount was just twenty-five dollars more than he 
had had for some time. The French Canadian knew that 
it would not last long, and the next check from home 
was a long way off, and would not be large enough to 
cover the intervening debts. He vaguely understood that 
he was up against a problem, but he had not conceived 
the least idea of any solution. He continued, however, 
to exist. 

During that fall, the interests of each of the four 
roommates were centered in the materials of education, 
financial, intellectual or athletic. The Crimson went 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


107 


through another successful football season, and the stu¬ 
dent body learned to take Harvard victories for granted. 
Brock and Riley and the Beau gave their whole-hearted 
support, paid more attention to their studies and cooper¬ 
ated in trying to solve the Beau’s financial problems. 
Brat had little time for anything other than his football, 
a few classes and his regular letters to and from Darton- 
ville—which were entirely a matter of routine with him 
before many weeks had passed. Ellen was, in Brat’s 
mind, the same “something to be reckoned with later 
on, but not now”—he knew that she had recovered satis¬ 
factorily from her illness, was able to attend a few social 
functions, travel a bit and was altogether her usual, 
complacently happy self again. Her letters told him all 
the home-town news, and his answers were chiefly attempts 
to rival the newsiness of her epistles. 

By the time of the Yale game, the ordinary life which 
the roommates were leading had begun to get on the 
nerves of the various members; things were going entirely 
too smoothly to be interesting, regardless of all Riley’s 
talk about “the intellectual satisfactions in life.” Vague 
in the mind of each there was an idea that “along about 
Yale game time an awful splurge would be in order.” 

Harvard-Yale game is a term to conjure with. To 
different people it recalls different scenes, different feel¬ 
ings. To the ’Varsity man at Harvard and at Yale, how¬ 
ever, it means, among other important associations, the 
end of a long hard pull, a two months’ draw in harness, 
and it means the signal for the breaking of training — 
all the rules and regulations prescribed by coaches and 
trainers for the duration of the football season can 
then be forgotten, laughed at, toasted, cursed, utterly 
disregarded. It is the signal for most men to tear loose 
from their confinement, to seek the flowing bowl and other 
means of celebration. Win or lose, the Harvard man 
has some kind of a party on that night; if Harvard 
wins, all’s well and the party is a celebration; if Yale 
wins, the world’s upside down and the sorrow must be 


108 WILD ASSES 

drowned. The whole University world is pervaded by 
the feeling. 

A little splurge, usually, and back to the books, feeling 
much refreshed and straightened out, ready for the long 
grind to Mid-Years. Foolish, perhaps, but at the moment, 
the impulse is almost a group madness; every temper is 
tuned toward breaking loose, toward throwing restraint 
and restriction to the winds; the spirit of the time points 
in only one direction—a wild party, the wilder the 
better for all concerned, for the wilder it is, the better 
as a tonic, and the more lasting as a lesson against going 
on wild parties. 

It is all in an education; and the fact that every one 
seemed to consider it so, or better, to have the con¬ 
viction that it really was the thing to do, was directly 
responsible for a great fall from grace by none other 
than the Blunderbrat. After much arguing on the part 
of Riley and much declining on Brat’s part, the latter 
succumbed to the Yale game madness when the Irish¬ 
man quoted the Bible regarding “the fact of there being 
a time to dance and a time to sing,” ending, “and this 
is the time for a rootin’-tootin’ party! The night of Yale 
game is the time to explode, if you ever expect to 
explode before you die!” So Brat finally agreed to 
accompany the crowd on its jamboree, after which he 
left with the team for a near-by country club, at which 
Crimson teams made a practise of resting during the 
two days preceding their big games. 

The Beau and Riley began their celebration on the 
night before the game, Brock being unable to accompany 
them because of certain promises which he had made 
to be with his imperious Dora that evening. The Irish¬ 
man and the French Canadian were celebrating in an odd 
manner; they were looking for bets, and their success 
might have been measured by their degree of intoxica¬ 
tion, for they steadfastly refused to give odds and 
they soon found true the old wheeze that no Eli sup¬ 
porter was ever known to give odds or even even money 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


109 


on a Harvard-Yale game; the further the two Crimson 
gamblers searched for an even bet, the more inebriated 
they grew, as a result of their habit of having a drink 
for every Eli man who demanded “odds because every 
good man we’ve got is in the hospital!” 

To every one of such, Riley replied, “Yeh—all in the 
hospital! Every damned one of them’ll be right there 
fightin’ tomorrow afternoon!” and took another drink. 

They did not get the bets which they sought all 
evening, and would not have bet on the game at all, had 
not the Beau, on Saturday morning, after helping a rum¬ 
running friend from down Maine dispose of several 
cases of forbidden liquids at a very good price in Cam¬ 
bridge, determined to enlarge his quarter-share in that 
transaction by whatever kind of bet he could find. The 
Irishman, a little foggy from the night before, finally 
donated an equal amount to the Beau to place as best 
he could. 

At six o’clock that evening, hoarse of voice and with 
trembling hands, the French Canadian counted out in 
Riley’s hand the latter’s share of their winnings at ten 
to seven odds, and ended by exclaiming, “For once in 
my life, Tom, I do believe there is a God in heaven! 
The first good luck I’ve had for years!” 

He could speak only in a whisper; the excitement 
of the game had made him almost a nervous and vocal 
wreck, and Riley, who had not been able to wax so 
enthusiastic over the give-and-take of the gridiron fray 
because of his morning-after feeling, was now so much 
recovered and so revived by the sight of his winnings 
that he became at once enthusiastic for the party which 
was in prospect for that evening. 

“And Beau-boy! Look at the money we can spend 
now!” he exclaimed. “We’ll get Brat so plastered he’ll 
forget home, mother and all religion!” On the strength 
of which they had a drink. 

Brat returned from the Stadium, tired and not relishing 
the prospects for the evening. He was sorry he had 


110 


WILD ASSES 


promised to go with Riley and the others, but he knew 
they would be forever holding it against him if he backed 
out at this late hour. Nevertheless he knew he didn’t 
want to go with them—meet a crowd of girls, have a few 
drinks, joke and play around foolishly awhile and come 
home—that would be the evening. And he was not 
interested in girls, anyway. 

No, he wasn’t interested in girls—didn’t know any¬ 
thing about them and cared less! Not that he hadn’t 
been exposed to their fascinating arts! He had been 
inveigled into plenty of parties, nice little affairs of 
various kinds, usually sober and perfectly proper in 
every respect, with decent little society girls still in the 
dreamy stage of youthfulness. Nice parties, all of them, 
and nice girls who were glad to use their cars to cart 
college boys around town, and patronize trick tea rooms 
and Bohemian joints on Beacon Hill. Jolly girls, so 
affectedly innocent as a rule, and so well versed in the 
fine art of appreciating risque tales and suggestive repar¬ 
tee. Plenty of harmless fun, out of which the girls got 
and gave little that was important, and the boys served 
merely as companions. He didn’t see anything in all 
that stuff — Elizabeth, for instance! 

Other parties, too, with girls whose threshold of thrill- 
dom was much higher, who had to have more excitement 
before their feelings could be aroused. Other parties, 
with mixed crowds, football game guests and bread-and- 
butter visitors—sort of a bore, all that kind of thing; 
he sympathized with those college men who were forever 
repaying social obligations with football game tickets, 
and then contracting other obligations which had also 
to be repaid and thought about; Brat didn’t relish having 
to think about anything. And then there were other 
parties, mostly with girls whose vocabulary complete and 
whose conduct complete were limited by the ever-function¬ 
ing “Collegian-stuff” complex — there’d probably be a 
lot of that kind on this party which Riley had planned, 
and he didn’t want particularly to meet them. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


111 


The last idea he had before they left the rooms was 
concerned with Ellen. He was sitting stretched out in 
a big chair, taking heavy, regular breaths and otherwise 
relaxing as muclras possible in anticipation of the stren¬ 
uous evening, when Riley was suddenly possessed of the 
devil, and of the idea of pouring a strong drink down 
his big roommate’s throat—“just to wake him up.” 
Brat, open-mouthed, was in such a position that he could 
not keep from swallowing Riley’s offering, but after a 
gulp and with tears in his eyes he started after his Irish 
friend, sputtering and heaving, swearing he’d break every 
bone in the other’s body if he found him. But Riley 
locked himself in the bathroom and refused to open the 
door until Brat promised not to molest him. 

“Glad you’re awake!” he laughed when he came out. 
“And I guess you are, all right — you sounded like the 
wild bull of the campus roaring around here; that drink 
did you good!” 

But Brat was not even thinking of Riley’s pouring 
efforts. At that moment he remembered Ellen, and was 
saying to himself that he really ought to be glad that 
he was tied up to her, otherwise he’d be worrying around 
after some such foolish girls as those whom he would 
probably meet that night with Riley and his friends. His 
last thought was of Ellen — he would write her a good 
long letter tomorrow and tell her all about it. 

“Come on, Brat! forget it!” called the Beau from 
the door. “You’re lookin’ better already!” 

Riley and the Beau had with painful care arranged 
for a considerable party, but when all the members had 
been rounded up, it was found that there were two men 
too many, and by the way the available girls had paired, 
Brat and another chap whom he knew came to the con¬ 
clusion that they were the odd men. 

“We’d best chase along and leave you people to your¬ 
selves,” said Brat when he noticed this situation. 

“Nothing of the kind!” remonstrated Riley, who was 
herding his sheep into the little private dining room 


112 


WILD ASSES 


where was to be held their celebration of Harvard’s vic¬ 
tory. “You come on in and we’ll locate a couple of 
girls in short order.” 

Several of the girls who were supposed to be with 
other fellows joined Riley in imploring them to remain 
for further developments, and when the other extra man 
accepted, Brat submitted also. So they entered, and 
under Riley’s able guidance the party got away to a 
glorious start on the strength of two rounds of most taste¬ 
ful drinks, after which Brat felt more like staying, and 
suggested that Riley try to find a couple of girls for 
them. 

Riley listened to several suggestions as to possibilities, 
and finally went to the telephone accompanied by two 
girls, each one certain that she knew of at least one won¬ 
derful woman who would come. When they returned, 
after about fifteen minutes, another drink having been 
had in the meantime, Brat seemed very disappointed tc^ 
learn that they had been unable to find a single fair com¬ 
panion who could get away. 

“They’ve all got engagements, or are sick, or don’t 
want to come out or something!” complained Riley. 

“Well, we’ll go along then, and see if we can’t find 
something exciting somewhere,” said Brat. 

“No—wait a minute!” broke in the Beau, who then 
called Riley into a corner for a whispered conference, 
after which Riley also told Brat to wait a minute at least, 
and then dashed for the telephone again. 

“Where’s he going?” demanded Brat, suspecting some 
one of his Irish friend’s jokes. 

“To telephone!” the Beau smiled. “He’s going to call 
an old friend of yours — she’ll be glad to come down.” 

Brat thought for a moment — an old friend? Must 
be Elizabeth! 

“Like the heck he is!” he exclaimed and rushed out 
after Riley, whom he found in the telephone booth, talk¬ 
ing excitedly with an uncongenial operator. Brat pushed 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


113 


open the door and pulled his friend out of the booth. 
“Don’t be foolish! I don’t want to see her!” 

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Riley, as 
if he had not the least idea as to what Brat meant. 

“You were calling Elizabeth, weren’t you?” laughed 
Brat. “And I don’t want to see her, so let’s go back!” 
He took Riley’s arm and led him back to the crowd. 

Other drinks were had, Brat succumbing to the insistent 
demands of the company that he stay and have a few 
rounds at least. Eventually a dinner was served and 
the party continued. 

Brat was feeling better. By the time the dinner was 
well under way he had come to such a degree of good 
feeling that he determined not to remain in the party any 
longer, since his presence was merely cramping the 
possibilities for the other more fortunate fellows. He 
declared to Riley that he was going, and after promising 
that he would return if he found nothing of interest, 
Riley let him depart, the Irishman feeling rather happy 
over the condition in which Brat was leaving. The 
others of the party still insisted that the two extras 
remain, and the other man submitted without trying to 
follow Brat’s example, so he set out alone, seeking some 
kind of a fair companion to bring back to the party. 

He had regularly been an abstainer, and the several 
drinks which he had had were having effect — he was 
beginning to expand and desire action. He went to 
several clubs and hotels, hoping to find someone who 
could lead him into something interesting, and finally, 
having met with but little success, he was on the point of 
returning to Riley’s party when he suddenly remem¬ 
bered that all the clubs and houses in Cambridge were 
having their usual Yale Game parties, and he had told 
more people than he could recall that he would try to 
stop in, if he could get free early enough. He decided 
to go to Harvard Square, but the nearest taxi-stand was 
at a hotel the name of which, when he had arrived in 
front of it, recalled to his mind that Pick and his friend 


114 


WILD ASSES 


Jud Lee and another chap whom Brat knew were having 
a little party all to themselves in that very hotel. He’d 
better pay them a little visit, just to surprise them. 

The party of six was well in progress when Brat finally 
found them. They were in a little booth, tucked away 
in a far corner of the place, imbibing freely and having 
an hilariously good time. Brat was welcomed with open 
arms, the girls and men j oining in showing every evidence 
of being glad that this new and extra blood was thus 
flowing into their party. Choice liquors were served, 
and their effects were altogether beaming, so much so 
that the party had soon progressed as far as it could 
without mishaps, which (unfortunately, the men thought) 
were unthinkable with the girls who were present; they 
were all three just excitement-loving young things, from 
the best of families, and had to be taken home at some 
reasonable hour and in reasonably good condition. The 
men realized this, and the drinks became fewer, the party 
gradually slowing down quite noticeably. 

But while the party in general was slowing down, Brat 
was warming up in a most unusual manner; he had never 
really had drinks of anything intoxicating, and this 
night had seen him imbibing more at one time than 
in all his life before. 

One of the girls, a sweet-faced little creature who 
seemed to Brat to have entirely too much energy and life 
for one so small, had from the first moment attracted 
Brat after the fashion of a magnet, and as the evening 
wore on he was taking up as much if not more of her 
time than her man was able to equal, and Brat could not 
determine absolutely which man was her man. 

This being his first real experience with liquid stimula¬ 
tion, Brat’s little world had expanded to the skies, and 
he became more and more convinced that he owned the 
world, and that anything which happened to occur to 
his mind could be carried out as well as not — which 
would have been all right, if no one had aided or abetted 
him in his efforts. The sweet-faced creature, however, 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


115 


was enjoying the game immensely, and took an impish 
delight in making this big giant of a man do funny things 
for her benefit. The more expansive Brat grew, the 
more she teased him and coaxed him, and the more 
uncomfortable her man became, until, when he thought 
his remonstrances were too utterly ignored by her, he 
turned his attentions to further and far more inordinate 
drinking—with the inevitable result. 

The end of it all was that the little girl had to be 
taken home, and Brat was elected by Pick for the office 
because her man had been declared hors de combat for 
the night. 

“He’ll learn some day!” was the sympathetic comment 
of the little lady, upon being thus informed. Turning 
to Brat, who was himself on the verge of raising the white 
flag, she smiled and beckoned, saying, “Come on, Brat, 
you funny old dear! I simply must go home!” 

Home they went, or at least Brat imagined they did, 
but the next thing which he realized clearly was his 
own room and his own pillow under his head. In his 
pocket later he discovered a card with the name “Virginia 
Jordan” and a telephone number on it, under which was 
a scribbled note reminding him to call sometime later 
in the day; on the back of the card was another note to 
the effect that Virginia had had to pay the taxi-fare by 
going through his pockets for his money—“excuse the 
familiarity,” it ended. Then Brat vaguely remembered 
that Virginia was the sweet-faced girl’s name and, despite 
his bottomless stomach and terrible headache, he could 
smile at the recollection. 

Thus did the mighty fall, and the old saying that “the 
larger they are, the harder they fall,” was never more 
truly nor nicely illustrated. He did not realize the 
fact, but it was nevertheless true that little Virginia 
Jordan had done something which no other woman had 
ever been able to do—make the Brat forget himself for 
the sake of her. 

Brat smiled at his patched recollections of the night 


116 


WILD ASSES 


before, and was on the verge of thanking Riley for his 
party when that gentleman, who had heard all about the 
time at the hotel, pointed out with much emphasis that 
this Virginia of the sweet face happened to be another 
man’s girl. “Why, she and Jud Lee are practically 
engaged — and here you go and drink Jud under the 
table, and then steal his woman away from him while he’s 
hors de combat! A fine gentleman we have for a room¬ 
mate!” 

This was all lost on Brat at the moment, but later in 
the day, when his senses began to re-collect themselves, 
he was further informed that his fair companion of that 
night had been none other than the daughter of Old Man 
Jordan, the well-known nail-eating aristocrat of Brook¬ 
line, and this information served to make him realize 
several things — mostly unpleasant. Came also in his 
mind the conviction that he had made an impossible 
ass of himself in the affair, and that the best thing he 
could do would be nothing; he’d write his letter to Ellen, 
and forget all about this Virginia who had caused him 
to make such a fool of himself among his friends. 

Invariably his letter to Ellen was written on Sunday 
morning, when Riley and the Beau were at church and 
Brock was at peace with the world by being asleep, but 
this Sunday’s letter was not composed and sent off until 
very late that night, and then it was not such a missive 
as might be called properly a letter, being merely a 
very short “just a line” note containing a few generalities 
about the game and his studies. 

The letter had been difficult to write — the cause was 
Virginia, it being still a recognized fact of psychology 
that one’s attention will invariably be disconcerted from 
matters pertaining to one girl when the vision of another 
girl is constantly crossing, recrossing and bobbing up 
in one’s mind. Brat should have admitted to himself 
that this continual “bobbing up process” was quite 
disconcerting. 

Thus it might appear that football celebrations may 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


117 


have many and varied results, some good, some bad, 
among the latter being the case of Beauvais, who was 
almost as financially wrecked on Sunday morning as he 
had been three days before the game. But his troubles 
were temporarily overlooked many times throughout the 
days following, owing to the indications of perturbation 
in their estimable roommate. To Beau, Riley opined that 
he guessed “little Virginia has sure played hell with our 
Achilles!” 

At which the French Canadian smiled, saying, “Well, 
every Achilles has a bum heel, you know!” 

Bum heel or not, however, Brat did not call or see 
Virginia as she had explicitly directed him to call or 
see her, and yet he did find it rather difficult to write 
to Ellen. 


A Female Monkey-Wrench 

During the ensuing weeks Brat continued to be annoyed 
by the image of Virginia, its every appearance making 
him wonder increasingly where she was and what she 
was doing — and then he would remember Ellen and pro¬ 
ceed to ignore Virginia’s image, or rather, he would 
proceed to try to ignore it. 

It is an old, old chip of human nature, this problem 
which confronted poor Brat during the weeks between the 
Yale Game and Christmas holidays, one of the easily 
observed mental conditions which has formed a starting 
point for many a tract, or investigation into the mys¬ 
teries of human psychology. And poor Brat was utterly 
untrained in this game — he had no precedents to guide 
him toward a solution. The more he tried to disregard 
and forget Virginia, the more frequently the image and 
the vague won derings came to him; not to cause him 
worry, because he had stubbornly refused and determined 
to continue to refuse to take any steps further in Vir¬ 
ginia’s direction; and as for his actions, that determina¬ 
tion was final. He did not act; he did not worry con¬ 
siderably; he just kept up the recalling of Virginia’s 


118 


WILD ASSES 


image, which image with its associations was somehow 
annoying. It would be difficult to explain the situation 
or his reactions by any specific reasoning, but the fact 
was that he could not keep from thinking of her. 

“One of the great mysteries of human society!” Riley 
once declared out of the depth of his Sophomoric wis¬ 
dom. “There is no accounting for a woman’s tastes or 
a man’s woman.” Truly Brat’s situation defied all ration¬ 
alising or explaining. 

Riley and Brock were by nature observers, hopelessly 
addicted to the gentle art of being interested in and curious 
about all that went on about them; and the obviously dis¬ 
turbed condition of their two roommates was pronounced 
enough to occupy their attention during this period. But 
their observational interest differed considerably, for 
while both watched the Beau and his growing financial 
troubles from the same point of view, their attitude 
toward Brat’s affairs was a divided one; Riley was a 
disinterested spectator, motivated by objective curiosity; 
but Brock, still having his troubles with Dora, had not 
forgotten Ellen; and despite his determined efforts to be 
disinterested in Brat’s affairs, he had to admit to him¬ 
self—with suspicion of his own disloyalty—that Brat’s 
triangle was nearer to him than it was to Riley, for 
Brock’s observations were animated by a subjective inter¬ 
est, and he could not make it otherwise. 

This also Riley suspected, especially when it became 
so noticeably true that no one had been able to really 
settle back into their pre-Yale-game routine of work and 
play. “We’re all upset!” he complained to the Beau. 
“Everyone’s all unsettled again, off the track, after having 
had a peach of a ride through the fall.” 

“I know it,” replied the Beau. “Also know what the 
cause is in my case; but what’s wrong with Brat and 
Brock and you?” 

“Damfino—” mused the Irishman, as through his mind 
ran several suspicions which he never expected to be so 
soon crystallized into convictions. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


119 


But not long after that the process of crystallization 
began. Brat was taking a course in Social Ethics under 
an eminent professor who was undeniably one of the most 
forceful instructors he had ever met. In his hands the 
matter of ethical conduct was made a matter of practical 
common sense, and it was made so with much force and 
effectiveness. This professor’s teachings were not forgot¬ 
ten over night, it being still a possibility in undergraduate 
schools to find such instructors. However that may be, 
Brat absorbed his teachings in this course in his usual 
habitual way, only more so, and on this particular occa¬ 
sion, which was shortly after Riley had confessed his be¬ 
wilderment to the Beau, he listened with more than usual 
keenness to the instructor’s consideration of a modern 
case of conjugal incompatibility and consequent infidelity, 
as treated in the light of an ethical system which was a 
combination of old Greek social law and the more modern 
Christian teachings. “The Greeks,” said the instructor, 
“had the same idea of infidelity as we have, in other 
words they held to the religion of ‘Thou shalt not—’ 
from the same motives of social welfare as we do today.” 
He then described similar, parallel married states in 
Greece, Egypt, India, China and modern Christian coun¬ 
tries. When he had finished, his hour’s lecture was all 
a haze in Brat’s mind, although the lecturer’s ideas had 
been well directed and effectively presented. The ideas 
were jumbled in Brat’s mind nevertheless. 

Next morning he had to remember, hazily of course, the 
details of a wild nightmare which had caused his aroused 
roommates considerable wonder. He needed no one to 
assist him in interpreting them. He had, he recalled, dis¬ 
covered himself to be a great infidel king whose armies 
were invading Greece. In his native country a woman 
waited upon his return, but here in Greece he was burning 
up with a passion for a holy woman, a priestess in the 
temple of Artemis. He had entered the temple to be with 
her, and she had led him on—then she became, not a 
priestess but the woman of another prince, a friendly 


120 


WILD ASSES 


prince—both their faces were terribly familiar; yet here 
was he with this girl who had been a priestess before 
whom he had been willing to bow; here were they enjoy¬ 
ing themselves, both unfaithful; suddenly there had come 
before them an enormous, white-robed prophet, who talked 
to them in deep, ringing, resounding tones, saying over 
and over again, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s 
house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his 
man-servant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his 
ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor’s — for it is the 
law! It is the law!” The voice had said other things 
too, about “hell fire” and “eternal damnation” and other 
terrible punishments, and then some odd-sounding but 
relevant things, like “fair play,” “sportsmanship,” and 
“social ostracism,” and many other odd terms. The voice 
had droned out these things in a terrible way, and had 
talked on and on until the rhythm of it caused the walls 
of the temple to shake and quiver, and the statue of the 
goddess to totter frightfully—the infidel and his priestess 
had become terrified; he had wanted to flee, she held him 
back, wanted him to stay; the goddess had tottered more 
and more as the rhythm of that terrible voice kept on 
stronger and stronger, until finally, seeing it about to 
fall, he tore himself free and fled away, through a side 
door and away to a dark woods in which had been many 
stars. He had rested there and in due time gone his 
way back to his people, determined to forsake this cam¬ 
paign, and determined not to ever, ever, covet anything 
that belonged to any other man in any other way—not 
ever! 

The rude awakening had come suddenly, just as he was 
leaving the star-lit woods, and for several moments Brat 
had been unable to decide whether he had been awake or 
asleep—the dream was all too real to him. 

His roommates did not push him for an explanation of 
these sleep walkings, but after they had all gone back to 
the bedroom from the study wherein had occurred the 
awakening, Brat, who made a last, lone trip to the bath- 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


121 


room for a drink, was heard by Brock, who at the mo¬ 
ment was entering the door, to exclaim to himself 
almost inaudibly, something to the effect that “that 
woman won’t see me now if she paid me!” And 
this bit of a comment reported by Brock to Riley gave the 
latter a key to the situation, and for days afterwards he 
and Brock spent many an idle moment discussing the 
strange effect which one little girl had had upon their 
steel-hearted roommate. 

Riley did most of the talking, for Brock, with his 
troubles and his conscience, could not trust himself to 
discuss Brat’s affairs at any length. The Irishman, how¬ 
ever, thinking over all the phases of the case, came to sev¬ 
eral conclusions, which he confided only to the Beau, 
which were, “The damned fool’s in love with this Vir¬ 
ginia and don’t know it! He won’t see her because he’s 
ashamed of the way he acted that night—because he’s 
supposed to be tied up to Ellen, and because Virginia is 
Jud Lee’s girl, and Brat thinks Jud Lee is too good a fel¬ 
low to play dirty with!” 

“By Cripes, some people are funny!” commented the 
Beau philosophically. “Why the devil should he fall in 
love with this Virginia, when she can’t be, from all I 
hear, any finer a girl than Ellen? I guess he’s just like 
all the rest of us; never satisfied with things we’ve got, 
always want something more or different!” 

“That’s the way it goes!” agreed the Irishman; “but 
this kid has nabbed our hero because he feels that she is 
forbidden fruit, and because she made him make such a 
foolish ass out of himself that first night that he’s 
ashamed of himself. I’d bet that’s the real reason for 
his being upset over her; if she hadn’t made him ashamed, 
he would never have bothered his head over her again!” 

Riley continued to moralize, philosophize and general¬ 
ize and observe and criticize as the weeks went by, for, as 
he concluded to his own satisfaction, the reason for all 
their lethargy as regarded studying, their inability to 
settle down again after the Yale game, lay entirely in this 


122 


WILD ASSES 


little bundle of femininity called Virginia Jordan—“She’s 
the monkey-wrench in these works!” 

Which was, more or less, a pretty good conclusion, for 
Brock’s routine of complacent acceptance of Dora’s com¬ 
mon ways was completely shaken by the development in 
Brat’s affairs. Sometimes Brock almost admitted to him¬ 
self that he wished Brat would fly off the handle and go 
after Virginia, “which is a fine way to feel toward one’s 
friend’s girl”—meaning Ellen. 

“Distance Lends-” 

The weeks rolled quickly by, bringing the mid-year 
exams to lay their cloak of enforced quiet over all 
extra-curricular activities such as girls and entertain¬ 
ments. Brat’s record in all his courses was unusually low 
and unsatisfactory, so unsatisfactory in truth that he 
had to have more than his usual amount of tutorial 
assistance in order to insure his passing; but after much 
burning of the midnight oil with tutors and alone he 
managed to bring his record for the half-year up to the 
requirements, and with that he was satisfied. He was 
much worse off, or had much more studying to do, than 
had any one of his roommates, because they had started 
the year with sufficient time on their hands to do at least 
a goodly portion of their required work, and up to the 
time of the Yale game all three gave better than per¬ 
functory attention to their studies. After that, when Brat 
should have been putting in the time necessary to catch 
up in his courses, the machinery of study had, for the 
reasons which Riley gave, somehow functioned in rather 
a loose and inefficient manner, and Brat came to the 
exams with a very unsatisfactory record and much 
studying to do. Brock was not far behind him in that 
respect, for he, too, had been slipping along too easily 
in his courses since the Yale game. Beauvais was not so 
badly off, despite his financial operations, which, by the 
time of the Mid-Years had come to embrace several 



TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


123 


ignoble professions, including the selling of liquor to his 
friends and the partaking of a survival-of-the-fittest inter¬ 
est in various kinds of gambling games such as exist in 
every college community. Riley seemed to go serenely 
on his way—never studied very much, never cut too many 
classes, always seemed to know something about whatever 
subject he was supposed to know something about. He it 
was who invariably took charge of their study sessions 
before exams, and he it was who led at such times, in 
the insistence upon studying despite drooping, sleep- 
anticipating eyelids and nervous dispositions. After a 
great amount of oil-burning and a periodically intense 
torrent of profane castigations of professors and textbook 
writers, he managed to pull his roommates through to 
satisfactory half-year marks. 

In view of this fact, Riley was certain that the time was 
more than ripe for a rip-roaring celebration, so he pro¬ 
ceeded to arrange for one, not delayed or retarded by 
either Brock or the Beau, but not exactly countenanced 
by Brat. Riley argued with eloquence, trying to persuade 
Brat to accompany them, but Brat was cured of parties, 
and flatly refused to be a sharer in any of Riley’s wild 
concoctions. 

“All right,” the Irishman at last submitted, “stay here 
and rot! My fondest, sincerest hope is that they turn off 
the heat, and let it get so cold here that your merry 
appendages turn to icicles and fall off!” 

Brat smiled. Even he enjoyed Riley’s blasphemy at 
all times. “Oh, I guess I’ll not freeze, Tom,” he laughed. 

“You ought to do worse than that!” rejoined that 
worthy, with heat engendered by several drinks. We go 
to work and fix up a perfectly nice party for you, and you 
haven’t the brains to appreciate it, let alone manners 
enough to say ‘Thank you!’ ” 

Riley was disgusted. “I’ll wager it’ll be a long time 
before I try to fix anything up for you again! 

“I didn’t ask you to. Run along now and have another 
little drink!” laughed Brat, and Riley took his advice. 


124 


WILD ASSES 


Alone, Brat sat for a long time, apparently lost in the 
maze of his own thoughts. These took many avenues, 
but they brought him to the resolve to write to his mother 
and to Ellen, so he moved over to his desk and settled 
down to these over-due letters. The one to his mother 
was of his usual kind; the one to Ellen was quite full of 
news, too. That finished, he was at a loss to know just 
what to do, finally deciding to walk to the postoffice on 
Brattle Street to mail them. 

From there he went to Randolph Hall to call upon 
some of his friends, who, he thought, on a night as cold 
as this, would surely be at home. But the rooms in Ran¬ 
dolph were empty. He tried another suite, in Claverly 
near by, but the only individual in that room was an im¬ 
possible up-stage boy, whom even Brat did not enjoy as 
a companion. He did not stop there long, but wandered 
out and up across the Avenue into the Yard thinking to 
drop into a senior’s rooms, a serious-minded chap who 
had a scholar’s knowledge of every profession and occu¬ 
pation the world over. This fellow had company, but 
welcomed Brat with due solemnity, invited him into the 
circle about the fireplace, and proceeded with the discus¬ 
sion of heavy economic problems with which the company 
had been engaged. Brat stayed long enough to hear these 
world-beaters and future captains of industry air their 
views on all that mattered in the world, decided he’d 
heard enough of that ego-inflation, and withdrew, saying 
to himself, “Gee, some people take themselves seriously!” 

He wandered over to a club on the Avenue and watched 
a three-handed game of bridge for a while, refusing the 
invitations to sit in, because he didn’t feel like playing 
bridge. In the billiard room was a strained game of bil¬ 
liards, the two players acting as if some sort of Quaker 
meeting rule had to be observed. Brat’s presence was 
acknowledged with a curt “Lo, Brat,” so he did not stay 
there long. 

On the Avenue again, he began to wonder why he felt 
so restless. There was something wrong with his affairs, 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


125 


and even the Brat felt uncomfortable and uneasy about 
this, whatever it was. It’d be nice if he could see Vir¬ 
ginia; but no, he didn’t want to see Virginia—he’d rather 
Ellen were there so they could go places together; Ellen 
would do all the talking and wouldn’t be bothering him 
all the time foolishly. Still, Virginia’s foolery and teas¬ 
ing, as he recollected her ways from that night of his fall 
from the grace of sobriety, were not so unpleasant, would 
be a lot of fun. Wonder what she’d be doing this 
night? 

“Let sleeping dogs lie!” he told himself by way of a 
verbal kick, as he turned down the street toward his 
rooms. It was, he noticed when he entered the study, just 
eleven o’clock, and automatically adding eight hours to 
that he decided to go to bed and get up at seven in the 
morning. But just as he was starting the process of un¬ 
dressing, his operations and thoughts were interrupted by 
the ringing of the telephone bell. 

“Well?” he asked, lifting the receiver. 

“Hello—this Brat? This is Brock-” 

“Yes, Scotty—what’s on your mind?” 

“Brat!” Brock continued, excitedly, “Riley’s in a hell 
of a fix! He’s half canned, and slipped in the snow out¬ 
side here a few minutes ago! He’s in tough shape, and he 
insists upon having you come down here—will you?” 

“Why-” Brat did not want to go, even if Riley 

were dead drunk. 

“Come on, Brat! Better hustle along as fast as pos¬ 
sible, and I’ll tell him you’re coming.” 

Brat was silent, trying to imagine just what had hap¬ 
pened to the inimitable Irishman. Finally he said, “Well, 
what do you think, Scotty? I hate like the devil to chase 
in there at this hour of the night, but I will if you say so.” 

“Yes—you’d better, Brat. We can’t do a thing with 
him, so hurry along.” 

“Well—where are you?” inquired Brat as an after¬ 
thought. 

Brock told him the name of the restaurant in which the 




126 WILD ASSES 

party was in progress, and Brat agreed to come right 
along. 

He went up to the Square, found a taxi and asked for 
speed. The taxi ploughed and slid through the snow- 
filled streets in good time, so good that Brat’s heart spent 
the greater part of the trip in his mouth, and deposited its 
fare without mishap at the destination. 

“Guess you’d better wait for me,” said Brat as he 
alighted and ran into the restaurant. 

He found the place almost deserted, so that Riley’s 
party was easily located, in a far corner booth. Running 
up to the end of the table he demanded, without stopping 
to remove his hat or turn down his collar, “Where is 
he?” 

A wave of laughter ran through the crowd, and the 
Irishman, smiling happily, was produced from under the 
table, “well plastered but still able to navigate! Greet’n’s, 
Brat!” 

Every one at the table was laughing, and Brat joined 
in as he said, “The joke’s apparently on me!” Then, 
looking at Riley, he demanded with a set smile, “What’s 
the big idea, Tom?” 

Riley merely laughed, and invited him to sit down. 
Brat’s eyes swept the group, coming to rest with a jolt 
upon the smiling countenance of none other than the fair, 
sweet-faced creature of his dreams, the cause of his night¬ 
mare, the proverbial monkey-wrench of his mental ma¬ 
chinery, Virginia Jordan. 

. “How do you do, Mr. Bratten?” she smiled sweetly. 
“Won’t you take off your coat and be comfortable after 
your hard ride?” She moved over, making room for 
him to squeeze in beside her, but Brat, noting quickly 
that there was an even number of girls and fellows, did 
not move. 

“No—don’t want to break in on your party,” he de¬ 
clared, really smiling this time, and continued, “So I 
guess I won’t stay.” 

This brought forth a general flurry of invitations to 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


127 


remain. “Come on, Brat, now you’re here, sit down and 
be human for a while.” This from Riley, who was at the 
moment acting as official bar-tender for the party. 

“Humph!” returned Brat, smiling and shrugging his 
broad shoulders. “You’d better be happy while you’re 
here, you’re going to get killed when you get home; I’ll 
be waiting up for you! So long, folks.” And with that 
he fled. 

“That’s that!” Riley had the drinks prepared by this 
time, and looking toward Virginia, he exclaimed, “Come 
on, now, Va, don’t cry over spilled milk—drink this and 
forget it all.” So they all drank and Virginia tried to 
forget it all. 

But she was having trouble in erasing Brat from her 
memory; that faculty in her mind was exceptionally 
keen, and she talked to her escort, the Beau, with grow¬ 
ing concern for the cause of Brat’s rudeness to her. 

“You can’t prove anything by me, Sweet Woman,” was 
the Beau’s invariable rejoinder and refuge. “That man is 
the prize enigma of all time-” 

“The Egyptians used him for a model when they made 
the Sphinx!” put in Brock. 

“Well, I can’t understand him at all!” declared Vir¬ 
ginia, as if trying to convince herself that she should 
never hope to be able to understand him. 

“Why worry about a mere man! ” was the wise, sophis¬ 
ticated comment of Dora, who for the first time in many 
moons had persuaded Brock to take her on a real party 
with his friends. He had been uncomfortable all evening, 
waiting for her to spill either his own or some other one’s 
beans. 

The party dragged on and eventually broke up. At 
home, Virginia cried herself to sleep. For the first time 
in her happy young life, a man had absolutely spurned 
her, thrown her flat, and she felt it keenly, the more so 
because the man happened to be something that she 
wanted—wanted, oh! so terribly much! She had been 
delighted with Brat’s funny ways on the occasion of their 



128 


WILD ASSES 


first meeting. He was so big, so strong, so clean and fine 
and so unlike the “wise” boys to whom she was accus¬ 
tomed. She really wanted Brat, as she had never wanted 
any other thing or person in her life. She had given him 
every opportunity for calling on her, for becoming bet¬ 
ter acquainted with her. She had waited and waited so 
patiently for him to call on that day after the Yale game 
—but he never called. 

She had consented to come on this night’s party just in 
the hope of seeing him, and finding out the reason for his 
not calling or trying to see her during the two months 
since their meeting; she had come with Beau, (“a prince 
of a fellow, and all that, but not much of a substitute 
for Brat”), and had lived in hopes all evening long, 
finally swallowing her pride to suggest the calling of 
Brat. And in the end—he wouldn’t even speak to her by 
name! And for no reason at all! No wonder she cried. 

At the same time in Cambridge, Riley blasted Brat in 
no uncertain terms. “You big, brainless, pig-headed 
barnacle on the rear end of progress! And you haven’t 
got even the decency enough to appreciate what we tried 
to do for you! What the hell’s the matter with you any¬ 
way—is that girl poison?” 

Brat listened to a lot before he even bothered to 
answer; finally he said, slightly ruffled by the Irishman’s 
verbal mauling, “Why don’t you all leave my business 
alone? If I wanted to see her I’d go to see her. Any¬ 
way, I can’t see what the hell she was doing down there 
in that joint with Beau—she must have a fine sense of 
fair play! And besides that—nothing!” With which he 
proceeded to undress without another word, and crawled 
into bed. 

But he heard Riley say to the Beau, “Well, old tank, it 
looks as if your martyrdom were in vain!” 

And the Beau replied, “She’s a good kid—but it was 
sort of rotten—can’t blame her for feeling upset.” 

Then Brock, who was slightly peeved and sour on the 
world because Dora had behaved herself all evening, 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


129 


cursed the other two into bed and told them, “Let him 
alone—he’s a married man!” 

But Brat, married man or no, dreamed about Virginia 
that night, and was much annoyed throughout the follow¬ 
ing days by very queer feelings, totally strange to him— 
resentment for having let himself into meeting Virginia 
in the first place, further resentment because he did not 
feel free to see her again on account of Ellen, irritation 
because Virginia did not seem to play fair with her man, 
Jud Lee, aggravation because her image would not cease 
appearing before him, annoyance because he was always 
getting into meetings with her in which he invariably 
made a fool of himself or acted like an ass, and exaspera¬ 
tion because he was resentful, irritated, aggravated and 
annoyed. 

Meanwhile Virginia had similar feelings, from slightly 
different causes, and finally broke off her relations with 
Jud Lee entirely, knowing that sooner or later the news 
of this break would come to Brat’s ears and perhaps stir 
him to action—for Jud was the only reason she could 
assign to Brat’s reluctance toward her. 

But she waited and waited without visible results. The 
news did in due time come to Brat, but the same day 
brought a good-sized letter from Ellen, and within a day 
or so he heard that Jud and Virginia were again tied up. 
The result was that Virginia waited and waited—most 
unlike any modern American girl is supposed to wait— 
and Brat waited and waited, all in a stew the greater part 
of the time; wanting to stay away from her and play the 
game with Ellen, at the same time he did want something 
else, and he didn’t know what to do, because he had a 
premonition that playing around with this Virginia would 
not be the same for him as his playing around with Pick’s 
friends had been during their Freshman year. Brat was 
extremely conscientious for a youth of his age; had his 
conscience not been so supremely in control of his ma¬ 
chinery, the female monkey-wrench in the person of Vir¬ 
ginia would have put his machinery not a bit out of 


130 


WILD ASSES 


commission; the monkey-wrench would have usurped the 
control, and that would have been the end of it. But as it 
was, Brat’s machine was functioning sporadically, spas¬ 
modically and altogether inefficiently. And Brat knew it. 

Riley watched developments, and on several occasions, 
after some queer act on Brat’s part betokened this dis¬ 
turbed state of affairs, he confided to Brock, “Distance 
sure does lend enchantment for these one-woman men.” 

And Brock, uneasy with the crown of Dora upon his 
head, would reply, not knowing whether Riley referred to 
Ellen or Virginia as the one-woman of Brat’s endear¬ 
ment, “Just like shell-shock! The damned fool’s going 
nuts!” 

To Brat, this “distance lends enchantment” idea was 
a two-edged sword, cutting in either direction or in both. 
Still, as does not happen in the story books, nothing hap¬ 
pened, as does happen in real life. The routine of work 
and play continued—regardless of all disturbances. 

Key Hunting 

The life of an undergraduate from day to day is full of 
incongruities and inconsistencies, dull realities and lurid 
expectations, contrasting ups and downs of emotional 
experience. The student who so intently hangs upon the 
words of wisdom emanating from a bewhiskered in¬ 
structor in a four-o’clock class, rushes from the lecture 
room to keep his next engagement—considered of equal 
importance by him—which may be an idle game of bridge, 
a tutorial conference with an instructor, a date with a boot¬ 
legger, a tete-a-tete with a loose lady, or a session of 
thesis-writing in the library or in his room. No one can 
ever tell by observing the occupation of a student at five 
o’clock just what that student will be doing at six, nor can 
one tell by the nature or elegance of one’s conversation in 
a bookstore at noon just how or about what one will be 
talking in his own room after dinner. 

Most students are like lamp-laden Diogenes, going from 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


131 


place to place, from people to people, from one thing to 
another, seeking; unlike Diogenes, they usually cannot 
say definitely just what it is that they are seeking; but it 
is very seldom an honest man. 

In the days following Brat’s last meeting with Virginia, 
there was more or less of a strained atmosphere in their 
rooms, the cause of which was traceable to what Riley 
called “this damned restlessness.” No one seemed to feel 
certain about anything, and no one seemed to be able to 
do anything of a definite, constructive nature. Their 
lives as students had, since Freshman days, been more or 
less colored, their dull moments merely leading up to 
colorful incidents. There had been plenty of incongrui¬ 
ties and inconsistencies in the past; but now it seemed 
that everything was more awry than ever, and, as Riley 
said, “We ought to be more settled than ever, more regu¬ 
lar, instead of irregular!” 

But affairs continued to be rather irregular. A change 
was coming about, and the troubles could all be traced to 
Brat, for that individual, who had been forever a slave 
to habit, was now become a slave to indecision, and the 
change was affecting not only himself but his roommates. 
He had made more or less of a success of everything in 
the past merely because of his ability to plot and ply a 
straight unmindful course through the good and bad 
waters of his life. This ability was a matter of mental 
machinery—and Virginia was truly a monkey-wrench in 
that machinery, so that now his master was not Habit, but 
Indecision. In the following weeks he had many oppor¬ 
tunities for seeing Virginia, and the more frequently the 
opportunities arose the more indecisive and irregular 
Brat became; his efficiency was reaching a very low ebb. 

This state of mind in their erstwhile so regular room¬ 
mate had various effects upon the others. Riley merely 
observed and wondered, philosophising as usual, and 
quoting poetry right and left—lines from the masters 
about the ways of men with maids, maids with men, the 
course of true love being rough and the life of lovers 


132 


WILD ASSES 


being a living hell; all of which was opportune, but not 
conducive to comfort for either Brat or Brock: 

To Brock, who had been doing just enough studying 
to make him dissatisfied with all college work, and hyper¬ 
critical of the scheme of things, Brat’s affairs and Riley’s 
poetic commentaries were more disturbing than Riley 
suspected. He had come to a working agreement with 
Dora by which he was able to maintain his own dignity 
among his fellows and at the same time see her as often 
as he chose. This he had thought would make things 
much easier and his mind more comfortable, but as the 
time passed and Dora still made a practice of keeping 
after him incessantly, Brock came to the conclusion that 
his hopes had been vain. He was determined to make 
the best of his predicament in so far as such a “best” 
was at all tolerable, but his odd attraction toward the 
memory of Ellen really did more to keep him to that 
determination than did the determination itself. He could 
not understand why Brat should ever think of turning 
away from Ellen for such a lightweight flapper as Vir¬ 
ginia, and he did not know whether to be regretful or 
gratified over the many evidences of Brat’s intention to 
stick to his girl from Dartonville. He suspected, before 
much time had passed, that Brat was on uneasy street, 
and he had to admit to himself that he was sorry, for 
very obvious reasons, all of which caused him shame. 

The peace which had come in Brock’s amative affairs 
had superseded the peace which he had had in his college 
affairs; he now transferred his restless attention to the 
business of going to college, with the inevitable result 
that he came to the same old conclusion—that it was all 
waste of time. 

“We were arguing about Education and Intelligence 
in English conference today,” said Riley one afternoon, 
as he sat down to play a game of cards with Brock and 
Beauvais and a friend named McCarthy. “Professor 
Whosis defined intelligence as ‘the having of a purpose¬ 
ful sense of values by which to conduct one’s life.’ ” 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


133 


“Meaning, in good old-fashioned slang—what?” in¬ 
quired the Beau, lighting a cigarette. The Beau had a 
habit of putting more expression and finesse into the 
lighting of a cigarette than he could ever command for 
any other occasion. 

“That’s the trouble with all these definitions and gen¬ 
eralities,” declared Brock. “No one can understand 
them—that is, the man in the street can never under¬ 
stand them.” 

“What do you mean—man in the street?” demanded 
the Beau, forgetting his technique. “I’ll have you under¬ 
stand that I belong to the intelligentsia, and where I come 
from they cut throats for less than that!” 

Brock smiled, saying, “But you’re not where you come 
from!” Having thus ignored the other’s mock anger, he 
proceeded, “I’d like to have some one explain the whole 
rigmarole of education to me; I go through the motions 
every day even to such side lines as chasing women and 
drinking hooch and shootin’ craps, but damned if I can 
make out just what it’s all about; the whole crew of us 
ought to be out diggin’ ditches somewhere, I think!” 

“Well,” began the Irishman again, “Old Whosis de¬ 
scribed life as a huge lock, and all us In man beings are 
supposed to be chasing around looking for a key to fit 
it. Now some kids go to work in grocery stores when 
they’re fourteen years old, and they look for the key 
there and around their work; others go through high 
school and maybe get a line on the key there; others just 
wander from one thing to another, never doing anything 
worth while, and they’re looking for the key; some of us 
come to college, and some work like hell, while some 
play around all the time, but all of us are looking 
for the key—some depend on luck, others on work, and 
faith in work.” 

“What difference did this Whosis think work or loafing 
might make about finding this all-important key?” asked 
Brock. 

“A-w—deal the cards!” interrupted Beau, who had the 


134 WILD ASSES 

happy faculty of not caring about things intellectually 
discussable. 

Brock proceeded mechanically to deal, his mind still 
turning over the possibilities of the key-lock conception 
of life. Finally he said, “Well, I suppose the idea is that 
some fellows come to college and just float around wait¬ 
ing for the key to drop into their hands—that’s us. Others 
come here and don’t take chances like that, but start 
right in to make a key of their own, so they’ll be sure 
to have one to fit the lock; there’s a lot around like that 
—Brat, for instance, and Pick; they’ll be able to open 
that bloomin’ lock, I suppose, while we’ll still be drift¬ 
ing, and cursing Dame Fortune for not giving us a key 
all readymade! That the idea, Tom?” 

“Exactly,” replied Riley. “The aim of education 
should somehow fit in there, too; let’s see, I think Whosis 
summed it up by saying that we should all be better able 
to look at life and appreciate values. He meant that we 
should, after finishing a college course, be in a position 
to do the things that are worth doing and avoid doing 
things which are valueless. That’s just common sense!” 

“Sure, any damned fool knows that!” put in the Beau, 
who at this time was making the best part of his living 
by selling bootleg liquor to his friends around the col¬ 
lege. “Why, I never needed to come to Harvard to learn 
that.” 

“Right—neither did we,” answered Brock, still thinking 
about the idea. “It isn’t the knowing that counts, it’s the 
being able to exercise your knowledge. Now, you—you 
damned fool, Beau—you say you know you should be 
able to discriminate between worth while and worthless 
occupations and acts, and probably you can so discrimi¬ 
nate, but you don’t act accordingly. Education should 
make a man a stronger man, make him able to do what 
he sees is worth while, and avoid doing what he sees isn’t 
worth while—there’s the aim of education!” 

“A lot of huey!” was the Beau’s opinion. “Mac, now 
you can see what I have to listen to every damned day. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


135 


This pair is terrible!” McCarthy smiled, waiting for the 
game to proceed. 

It went on slowly, Riley and Brock being more inter¬ 
ested in speculating upon this business of education than 
in watching the run of the cards. 

“Education should educate desires!” said Riley. 
“That’s what you mean, Brock—and it should educate 
them so that they will be strong enough to look out for 
themselves, eh?” Brock nodded, and the Irishman con¬ 
tinued, “Well, look at us—we’re fine examples of edu¬ 
cated desires!” 

“Yeh—four bundles of suppressed desires!” laughed 
the Beau. “Will you, for Cripes sake, deal those cards?” 

The cards were dealt and the game went on, the inter¬ 
ruptions for discussion becoming more and more infre¬ 
quent. Now and then the conversation would center on 
the cards—thence to the subject of some girl who hap¬ 
pened to be known to them all—thence to the price of 
liquors in various localities—thence from subject to 
subject, with many profane comments and heated argu¬ 
ments, until finally Brock declared that he had had 
enough. “I’ve lost interest in playing cards,” he de¬ 
clared; “lost interest in everything, as a matter of fact! 
I’d like to get rip-roaringly plastered and raise Cain!” 

The game broke up; the players separated. Brock de¬ 
clared again for a liquor party, thought better of it and 
declared that he had to study, thought again and decided 
to go to Dora’s—and went, thinking the while he did 
that there was “a hell of a big joke in this Educated De¬ 
sires scheme!” 

Yes, college life is much a matter of incongruities and 
inconsistencies; it was even becoming so for Brat, the 
paragon of consistency and logical progression in real 
life. He went through the routine as if little were wrong 
within him, but, if all could have been seen, his mind 
was at this time a battlefield with as many armies strug¬ 
gling there as he had complexes, inhibitions and desires 
—both educated and uneducated, suppressed and free. 


136 


WILD ASSES 


An older man, in considering Brat’s case, would probably 
have said that the only trouble with him was that he had 
taken longer to grow up than the average boy takes. 
Whether or no, Brat was having his troubles, and more 
than once he felt the point of the apex of his triangle of 
hearts pricking him unnecessarily deep. He was uncom¬ 
fortable, to say the least. 

All of which uneasiness arose from the fact that Vir¬ 
ginia, who apparently could not take “No” for an answer, 
continually contrived to have Brat invited places where 
they would meet, and in many other ways managed to 
keep herself in his mind. Brat’s determination grew 
stronger, however, and when he learned from home that 
Ellen would be at school in Boston again the following 
fall, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

So the school year passed, with not much of anything 
happening to break the routine, except several amateur 
shows, musical clubs’ concerts, Union dances and finally 
the Junior Prom, which all attended, and where Brat ran 
full-face into Virginia and was feeling so intoxicatingly 
good that, had it not been for Jud Lee’s watchful super¬ 
vision of his companion, Brat would probably have bet¬ 
tered his acquaintance with her. With morning he was 
entirely recovered, and joined with Riley in blasting out 
all such social functions which, as the Irishman said, 
“Are nothing but elevated mob scenes, with two orches¬ 
tras trying to drown out the noise, and a hallful of stags 
looking with eyes like hungry wolves at every girl that 
passes, cutting in if you let ’em or making wise cracks 
about the girl the rest of the evening if you don’t let ’em! 
A hell of a party!” 

On this occasion Brock had said, “No one ever seems 
to have a good time at those big dances—I can’t under¬ 
stand why people go to them if they don’t enjoy them!” 
Brock had spent the evening in the crowd’s booth enter¬ 
taining other fellows’ girls when the other fellows’ thirst 
had to be quenched. “Now me—I had a good time on 
several drinks, and never danced a dance!” 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


137 


However, the fact remained that no one enjoyed the 
Prom over-much, and that was really the only real break 
in the monotony of late winter and early spring. 

Weeks passed, and the general uneasiness increased. 
Brock was serene socially but much upset academically; 
more and more he grew to be critical of all about him, 
his work, the reason for other’s actions, the why of going 
to college. He looked out upon the college world about 
him and wondered more and more at the passing show. 

Came a Sunday in late spring—and if there is one day 
of the week really, concretely remembered by every alum¬ 
nus, it is Sunday; for on Sunday of all the days of the 
week the student is absolutely his own boss; there’s no 
nine o’clock bell on Sunday morning, no classes to attend, 
breakfast can be eaten leisurely, a fellow can take his 
time about doing whatever he pleases. Sunday in Cam¬ 
bridge is a day of rest. Such days are memorable, even 
in the lives of loafers. 

“What Means this Tumult in a Vestal’s Veins?” 

Inconsistencies and incongruities! Educated desires! 
Intelligence, the end of education, equals a perspective of 
life, a working sense of values! These, Brock and Riley 
often argued, were the reasons for one’s coming to col¬ 
lege. Brock and Riley thought and discussed these mat¬ 
ters at great length, but had they been able to see and 
know everything that was going on about them, their dis¬ 
cussions and meditations would have run to incredible 
lengths, and in the end they would have been baffled by 
the evidence. 

Came a Sunday in late spring; and of all places in the 
world, none can vie with Harvard Square and its com¬ 
munity (or rather, any college community might vie with 
it) in the matter of having the greatest variety of human 
occupations and activities on the Sabbath morning. For 
which there is ample explanation, and many proofs of the 
explanation. 


138 


WILD ASSES 


Truly, Cambridge, in that so Puritanical Common¬ 
wealth of Massachusetts, is in a country acclaimed for its 
freedom and personal liberty, and Harvard Square, in 
Cambridge, is a veritable hive of the free. Here one 
may worship as he pleases or sees fit, blaspheme as he 
pleases or sees fit and do good or evil in general as he 
pleases or sees fit. This Freedom. 

The greatest of old American colleges, glowing self- 
satisfiedly in its own light, is a hill-top temple of free¬ 
dom; its far-flung community, from the Charles to the 
hills of Somerville, reflects the temple lights. Its intel¬ 
lectual oligarchy is a high priesthood in this temple of 
democracy—knowledge and intelligence being the bea¬ 
cons of true democracy. Its professors are intercessors 
before the god of knowledge, and its instructors are 
ushers serving the multitude who think they seek com¬ 
munion with Knowledge, but really want only to see and 
hear the priests of that god within the walls of his 
temple. 

(Riley had noted these features and had said, “Athena, 
goddess of learning, you’ve a lot to answer for!” 
And Brock replied, “You can blame everything on a 
woman*!”) 

That multitude! This Freedom! They come seeking 
something, they know not what. They come to be satis¬ 
fied, they know not how. They crowd the schools and 
colleges of the country until these institutions are break¬ 
ing under the strain of catering to the multitude seeking 
admission to the halls of learning. A mania for learn¬ 
ing—for college-given knowledge—every boy and girl 
must be educated! They come in droves and legions, 
multitudes—and from what cause this inrush? for what 
purpose? Why are the worn walls so attractive? Why 
do the feet of millions so itch to tread well trod stones? 
Why this thirst for knowledge? Why do they come, 
this multitude? 

They come to be in fashion—being uneducated is 
simply not being done—it is mortifying! They come for 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


139 


prestige, to bask in the rays of the temple’s lights, su¬ 
premely confident that they will go away with a new and 
brilliant coloring for all the world to see and admire or 
envy! 

What is the business of education? Is it, as Riley 
called it, “Merely a chance for the brilliant to shine and 
the dumb stones to reflect,” or is it, as Brat put it, “Just 
one’s job for the time being”? Is this brilliant coloring 
worth so much effort and expenditure and sacrifice by 
fathers and mothers, and often by the young worshipper 
himself? What do they find, once inside the temple 
walls? Here they set about getting what they seem to 
have wanted, doing what they please, chasing those satis¬ 
factions which they crave to embrace. They will be sat¬ 
isfied with the prestige of a degree, this they know. But 
other than that, their cravings have little in common with 
the services of learning. They live, but their learning 
does not help them live, nor does it help them die! Their 
cravings are for freedom, not for the finding of things 
ultimately worth while, not for developing a sense of 
values by which to apply and strengthen and make more 
happy their existence on this earth. They crave self- 
expression, unfettered individuality. This Freedom; the 
privilege to live as each sees fit, to enjoy and indulge in 
those pleasures, those vices, those “experiences” which, 
they have been deluded into thinking, home life has not 
allowed them. This Freedom is written in smoke-1 etters; 
it is a mirage, an illusion, causing anticipations which 
can never lead to satisfactions or even realizations, but 
for the time of its predominance, we poor mortals spend 
our every moment in pursuit. If variety is the spice of 
life, as it is so often said to be, no Mexican could swal¬ 
low a morsel as hot as our modern life appears to be. 
The joys of monotony and the pleasures of solitude are 
conspicuously scarce. 

Every community bears witness. A Sunday morning 
in Harvard Square finds a myriad of scenes which are 
truly typical of all such communities in our broad, fair 


140 


WILD ASSES 


land—the number of kinds of scenes almost equals the 
number of people in the community—for in an age of 
independence, even so-called, people will do as they 
please. 

As they please? On a late spring Sunday, on Cam¬ 
bridge Common, stretching from the Washington Elm on 
Huron Avenue across to the black hole whence come the 
subway cars up Massachusetts Avenue, may be seen here 
and there a nursemaid watching over a child at play or 
pushing a baby carriage mechanically up and down one 
of the paths that skirt the statue in the center of the green. 
Here and there, also, is an old man contemplating the 
sky and the trees and the passersby. Also a few people 
hurrying past, toward some destination, perhaps a church, 
but more probably to a breakfast or lunch in the Square. 
Also a few students reading books or Sunday papers in 
the shaded corners. Also, perhaps a few children play¬ 
ing on the statue, accompanying their movements with 
screams and laughter. And perhaps if one is observ¬ 
ant a foreign-featured man or boy may be seen walk¬ 
ing intently across the green, with bulging pocket or 
maybe a handbag which now and then gives forth a 
tinkling glass-against-glass sound. But altogether a peace¬ 
ful, soothing bit of modern life there on Cambridge Com¬ 
mon on a Sunday morning in late spring. 

On the opposite side of the subway’s mouth stretches 
the main portion of the University grounds. The walled- 
in campus traditionally known as the precinct of the orgi- 
nal College, and now called “The Yard,” seems in a state 
of calm peace equalling that prevailing on the Common. 
The lecture and demonstration halls and the laboratories 
are closed. Widener Library is open “for readers only.” 
Dormitories are apparently lifeless, ominously so. Even 
Appleton Chapel, where services are regularly held, and 
the Phillips Brooks House, with its ever-welcoming open 
doors, are almost deserted, as if in keeping with the Sab¬ 
bath spirit. All is quiet throughout the Yard, for the few 
stragglers, who might so easily disturb the peace, are 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


141 


low-voiced or silent in their unconscious respect for, or 
awe of, the atmosphere of this historic place. 

Yet the occupants of these ominously quiet dormi¬ 
tories are not all wrapped in sleep, as investigation of any 
one of them would prove. In one of the Senior halls, 
several incompatible occupations are in progress. In 
one room a leisurely game of bridge, the four players 
smoking and talking and playing with no evidence of 
enthusiasm or interest. In another two friends jointly 
carrying on a telephonic conversation with a mutual girl 
friend. In another a group of studious-looking young 
men, dressed in the latest lounging clothes as given in 
Vanity Fair, are reading the Boston Sunday Advertiser 
and the New York Times, with intermittent discussion of 
debatable items of news. In another a lone man, dressed 
most properly for the street, acts as though he were wait¬ 
ing for some one to call for him; he puffs furiously at 
his pipe and glares at the cards with which he is playing 
solitaire on his bed. In another, the “goodies” are giving 
the beds a lick and a promise, hurrying as if afraid 
some one might see them making them up properly. 
Next door a dishevelled youth is engaged in writing his 
weekly letter to the home folks, his train of thought 
being frequently broken by his roommate’s requests for 
information as to details of the week-end party in pros¬ 
pect. Overhead, two collegiately dressed gallants are 
eagerly discussing tennis and the fine arts, and as eagerly 
consuming chocolates and mixed nuts. Down the hall a 
noisy meeting of a chapter of The Ancient and Dishonor¬ 
able Order of Crapshooters is in that state of tenseness 
that comes only after an all-night session. 

From the showers comes the sound of several voices, 
whistling, and running water. At the telephone in the 
hall a ministerial-visaged hopeful is exercising against 
an unresponsive operator a line of profanity and blas¬ 
phemy that would shame the proverbial trooper by its 
profusion and strength. 

Downstairs, in the basement that unsung and undeserv- 


142 


WILD ASSES 


ing hero, the janitor, is spending his half-hourly rest over 
a rank old pipe whose aroma disinfects the entire build¬ 
ing, thus relieving the unsung hero of that unpleasant 
task. Behind his chair an ominously fat cat is singing to 
herself, wondering perhaps why all her friends are look¬ 
ing so thin of late. 

In a well-decorated room on the first floor, a poet, 
whose works are as yet unpublished, is communing with 
his muse by gazing dreamily across the Yard; a copy of 
“Sappho” lies closed in his lap; paper, pencil and a writ¬ 
ing board are near his hand, and he is waiting for the di¬ 
vine afflatus. In the rooms above, two sufferers from an 
acute lyric urge are rendering their repertoire on banjo, 
ukulele and voice, all sour; fortunately, their windows 
are closed, for they happen to be singing some of those 
memorably rotten ditties which came out of the Great 
War, the last one being about a certain “Farmer, I Want 
Your Daughter Fine! Parlez-vous?” the daughter evi¬ 
dently being none other than the renowned lady from 
Armentieres, who said she might as well have been in a 
vault for the last fifteen years. A touching little ditty, 
full of pathetic feeling and misleading inspiration, but it 
is being enjoyed with smiles by more than one young boy 
down the hall, where open doors signify its welcome. 

One of these listeners wonders vaguely “how they do 
it.” He is a dazed, dreary youth, too boyishly handsome 
for his own good, and he is walking the floor, with a 
letter in his hand which he has read over and over again 
since he found it in his letter box late the night before. 
The letter said, in ironically fine, well-chosen phrases, 
that the Dean was “very sorry to inform” him that “on 
account of” his failure to meet his requirements, his “con¬ 
nection with the University” was severed. “Survival of 
the fittest!” he keeps muttering as he listens to the songs 
from down the hall. “A damned lie! Survival of the 
Fortunate! That’s it!” 

In the room above him a dissipated Romeo lies abed, 
arguing with himself the pros and cons of the marriage 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


143 


problem. He has met a married woman who swears she 
loves not her husband but him, and wants only the time 
to rid herself of her lawful supporter in order to take 
him for better or for worse. Not so good, thinks the 
Romeo. His roommate, because he cannot sleep and is 
too retiring to get up, is reading a novel, required in one 
of his English courses, and is almost ashamed of himself 
for enjoying it. Across the hall, a sickly, apparently 
God-forgotten boy is dressing for church; he thinks the 
services are worthless, education aimless and his own time 
misspent, but he goes to his classes regularly, studies 
hard, lives an upright life and keeps wondering why he 
doesn’t get along as the other fellows do. 

And in the attic suites are a few scholars. Bright, 
clever fellows, whose intelligence has not shown them as 
yet that scholarship pays no dividends. At this moment, 
two such men are spending the Sabbath in plugging over 
a dry old Greek named Sophocles. In contrast, the 
adjoining suite holds a young fellow with a wardrobe full 
of clothes of recent model; a few books are in evidence; 
the room is in disorder; the boy, sitting up in bed, is 
wondering whether his check from home will arrive on 
the morning mail next day; he does not try to remember 
that his mother will forego clothes and little near-neces¬ 
sities in order to get that check off to him, the brilliant 
young hopeful of the family; he has a party planned for 
Monday night. 

Rest, quiet, peace, intellectual serenity! but this college 
life is an intense life! 

In the opposite corner of the Yard the residence of the 
president sits, smug, imposing and impressive in its 
sturdy architecture. Seeing it one wonders how any man 
could look out upon the world from its windows with 
feelings other than serene and satisfied. But across the 
street the dark old Union is beginning to show signs of 
life. The card-room, otherwise known as the Quiet 
Room, has its windows open. The reading room holds a 
few letter writers and newspaper readers. Not much 


144 


WILD ASSES 


noise there, but at the other end of the building, the din¬ 
ing hall is beginning to fill with that motley crowd of 
German-Jews, Russian-Jews, French-Jews, American-Jews, 
Italians, Greeks, Frenchmen, Swedes, Irishmen, Irish- 
Americans, acquired-Englishmen, Chinamen, Japs, Fili¬ 
pinos, East Indians and a few retiring Yankees—that 
crowd which, by its cosmopolitanism, has offered the 
negro waiters the unusual opportunity of getting a liberal 
education in the psychology, manners and politics of the 
world of nations, which opportunity these dusky servitors, 
however, forego, preferring to vie among themselves in 
noisily rustling silver and chinaware. Their efforts pro¬ 
duce the most unmusical cacophony imaginable and 
greatly disturb the peace and quiet of the Union’s near 
neighborhood. 

Yet across Harvard Street a picturesque church is 
doing business, and almost between the two a dormitory 
that is known as the last stronghold of the “gold coasters,” 
the wealthy loafers, stands in uncomplaining rest and 
peace, with the air of saying that money buys immunity 
from all such disturbing elements of life as clinking sil¬ 
verware and pealing church bells. 

Along the Avenue, the shops and lunch rooms are all 
open, yawning for business, with the exception of one 
antique furniture shop, one grocery, two jewelry stores, 
two second-hand book stores, one bank, two clothing stores 
and one haberdasher’s. In and out and about these shops 
many well-dressed, collegiate young men loiter, all of 
them apparently acquainted among themselves—as they 
should be, for most of them have lived in and around 
Harvard Square throughout their lives. They are all 
members in good standing of the University of Harvard 
Square, a self-perpetuating institution, whose entrance 
requirements demand that die individual assume the col¬ 
legiate manner, wear the latest fashions, mingle with 
Harvard men and be able to talk Harvard athletics to 
strangers, visitors and any of the Crimson’s enemies. 
They have the virtue of loyalty. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


145 


From the little streets which go down toward the River, 
trickle a series of steady streams of life, which pour into 
the Avenue and help to swell the torrent there. The 
Avenue and the Square present such a suggestion with the 
continually creeping throng of church-goers, idle prome- 
naders, lunch patrons and boy-crazy girls. Long before 
noon the promenade is on, and the Subway Rotunda in 
the center of the Square stands like an island rock in a 
sea of steadily churning waters. It all suggests the man¬ 
ner of living in our cities today, where people go out for 
the air by walking the streets most crowded with people. 

Albeit, there’s a peaceful scene. Indeed, the policemen 
are so anxious for excitement that the least, inadvertent 
misdemeanor elicits the sternest rebuke. Harvard Square 
is a peaceful place, a likable place, a desirable place to 
live and learn, which shows that it is fulfilling at least a 
part of its raison d’etre , which is to provide a place for 
one “to live and learn to live”—the last infinitive’s mean¬ 
ing making a superficial judgment on appearances 
unreliable. 


Seven Tutors and One Pupil 

On such a Sunday morning in late spring, a justly re¬ 
nowned local chapter of the Ancient and Dishonorable 
Order of Crapshooters was in a wild session in its 
usual place of meeting, in one of the little alley streets 
just off the Avenue. The rendezvous in which the session 
was in progress was in the name of four quiet peace- 
loving members of the University the quietest one of 
whom was still abed in the vault-like chamber beside the 
study. His three roommates were taking an active 
part in the proceedings in the study. One of them 
looking a little the worse for having been up all night 
was showing signs of steadily waning enthusiasm for 
the game in progress on the floor, but the others were 
more actively interested. Of the whole group gathered 
there, two others also showed unmistakable evidences 


146 


WILD ASSES 


of having been on the previous night’s party, and the 
three who were thus so tired were in various stages of 
undress—one with shoes and shirt off, another clad in a 
battered straw hat and knee-length underwear of a well- 
advertised variety, and the other, sans trousers and sans 
shoes, looking every inch the model for some college-cut 
sox company. A grotesque picture this trio presented— 
somehow inconsistent with the descriptions of students 
given by certain estimable educators in their books, maga¬ 
zine articles and public utterances. Yet Riley, Brocker 
and Maunstein were students in good standing. 

Completing the circle around the playing field, four 
other, obviously more interested, participants were sit¬ 
ting, squatting, kneeling and standing, money before them 
or in hand, talking incoherently to the dice and to one 
another, and emphasizing their points by unnecessarily 
noisy but typical gesticulations. One of these was in 
pajamas, having been rooted from his slumbers by the 
noise of the festival. The other three were adequately 
clothed, so much so that they appeared to be expecting to 
leave momentarily, and Riley was spasmodically re¬ 
dressing himself preparatory to going with them—they 
were bound for the little wooden cathedral just down the 
street from their present meeting place. The names of 
the other three were Manning, O’Connell and McCarthy. 

This carnival in honor of Lady Luck, la belle dame 
sans merci , had started early in the morning upon the 
return of Riley and the other undressed figures from an 
all-night party in town; it had dragged on through the 
morning, with varying good and bad fortune for the sev¬ 
eral individuals, chiefly for the reason—which is always 
the reason for the duration of all informal gambling 
sessions—that it could not be stopped: no man will sanc¬ 
tion the breaking-up of a game when he is losing and 
he can’t walk out of the game when he’s winning. 

“That’s always the way it is!” Riley complained, for 
perhaps the twentieth time that morning. “We’ve got to 
go now or we’ll miss Mass—but we can’t walk out with all 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


147 


the money without you fellows getting sore about it! I’m 
off these friendly games after this!” The Irishman, 
however, continued in the game, giving every one a 
chance to win back the money which he had gathered into 
his coffers. 

And the game dragged on, the losers began to “come 
back” and the winners to lose, so that by the time the last 
ring of the beckoning church bells had died away, Riley 
had changed from the winner’s position and attitude to 
that of a loser—and he resented the change. The Beau 
and Brock were now winning, the church-bound con¬ 
testants were their opposites. 

So the game went on—and the further along it 
dragged, the more bitter became the feeling of all con¬ 
cerned until, long after church time, it bade fair 
to end in utter hostility between the various parties. 
Riley was loud in his complaints and, when Brock chided 
him for being a poor sportsman, he declared, with much 
feeling, “The good loser is an affectation. There ain’t no 
sich animal, because when a man loses something that 
means anything to him, he’s going to feel rotten about 
it! If he shows his feelings he’s called a hum sport, 
but show it or not, he really is, every damned time!” 

To which Brock readily agreed, he being now a win¬ 
ner. But the game went on in the time-old way, turning 
gradually but surely into a survival of the most fortunate 
or fittest, and the man in the bedroom continued in unper¬ 
turbed slumber, for it required greater cataclysmic dis¬ 
turbances than crap games to disturb the Brat, even 
when Virginia in image did not hold him entranced. 

The festival would undoubtedly have ended in a chaos 
of bitter feelings, had it not been for the unexpected 
arrival of a young man for whom no one entertained the 
slightest comradely feeling. The game had been in prog¬ 
ress about six hours when this individual appeared, 
at the so-called psychological moment, and achieved 
the incredible by bringing every one back to a state of 


148 


WILD ASSES 


good feeling. Such things, rare indeed, do happen once 
in a long time, and this occasion was the once. 

The gentleman in question was one F. Somerford 
Hamilton (commonly called “Frank” by his friends) a 
being so lean and lanky that Darwin would have been 
hard put to it to distinguish him from the genus tooth¬ 
pick. Son of a moderately successful Boston lawyer, 
Frank had spent such a guarded childhood and youth 
that his attitude toward other human beings and toward 
life was slightly twisted, askew in keeping with the 
stories and tales which so mislead the curious uninitiated. 
Excruciating in his proclivity for talking about himself 
and for reciting with over-affected suavity his innumerable 
intimacies with the governor, judges, large scale politi¬ 
cians and other easily recognized authorities of the Com¬ 
monwealth, studiously a man of the world in all things, 
eternally spreading choice bits of scandal and talking 
about his own escapades and experiences in a way that 
caused acute pains to all but first acquaintances, Frank 
was withal, a likable chap, entirely harmless, without 
malice and without sting. Always ready to lend one a 
dollar or two, he was forever after mentioning the inci¬ 
dent, and forever blatting about something of no impor¬ 
tance whatsoever. He was in his own mind, an exalted 
man among men. The crowd had long ago given him 
up as a hopeless nincompoop and paid as little atten¬ 
tion as possible to his inconsequential presence. 

On this Sunday, about noon, he rushed in, all business, 
and in a loud, frenzied voice, reeled off his prearranged 
line: “Boys, 0 boys! What a party! What a party! 
Never saw as much liquor in all my life! Almost floated 

away in it! Down at Judge -’s country place— 

everybody, women and all, plastered for fair— The 
Judge was so boiled when we broke up that he insisted 
on giving every one present a quart of his liquor! Can 
you string that? Absolutely insisted! I got a quart of 
Gordon’s! Brought it home and haven’t touched it— 
if I’d had one more drink I’d never have got home! . . . 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


149 


0 boys, 0 boys! What a party! My old man’ll have 
hemorrhages in four directions when he hears about it!” 

Most of this running line was unnoticed by the tired 
and nervous auditors, but the reference to Gordon’s 
Gin caused every head to turn toward the speaker. 

“Well, let’s have a drink!” suggested Riley, creating 
a pause in the activities of the galloping cubes. 

“Oh Cripes!” replied Frank with a laugh. “I haven’t 
got it with me. It’s in the car.” 

“Well, where is it?” This from the Beau. 

“Why, it’s in the car. unless some one’s appropriated 
it since four o’clock this morning.” 

“Well, where in hell is the car?” Riley broke in again. 

“Uh—down by the Catholic Club.” Frank was begin¬ 
ning to look uneasy. 

“Then, for the love of Lucifer, go down and get it!” 
Riley’s voice held more despair than hope. “Don’t you 
see we’re all about ready to pass out here? Go on! Be a 
good fellow for once in your life—if you leave that gin 
down there somebody’ll steal it, sure as hell, and then 
none of us will profit by it. Chase along, Frank!” 

McCarthy, “I’ll go with you.” 

“Why-y-a, no, I’ll get it—if it’s still there.” Frank 
spoke hastily, adding, “You know it may not be there 
now anyway. I told Izzy Donnelly he could use the bus 
to run in town, so it may be gone now. But I’ll run 
over and see.” That was a happy inspiration, Frank 
appeared to think, for he smiled, saying, “Pray for me!” 
and was out the door and gone. 

The game proceeded again with new hope and life 
instilled into it. The betting was still restrained, but the 
prospect of a few drinks raised the assembled spirits 
very noticeably. 

Somerford returned after an absence of what seemed 
an age and rushed in talking. “Just my luck! Don¬ 
nelly’s gone to town. Ought to be back any time now, 
but of course you can’t tell—he may not be back for an 
hour or so. I told the boys up there to send him right 


150 


WILD ASSES 


down here pronto as soon as he comes in.” Frank was 
much grieved, as could be plainly seen. “So—that’s 
the best I could do, fellows!” 

The disappointment, however, brought the house down 
upon the hapless Frank. Innuendo, sarcasm, ridicule, 
insinuation and not a little well-directed profanity were 
heaped upon him; he was a joker—a fraud—always 
shootin’ a line a mile long but never producing—they’d 
bet he never had a good drink in his life—probably 
never saw that Judge’s face, let alone his country home— 
full of the old huey—a fourflusher—a false alarm—a 
damned nuisance—worthless pest—et cetera almost ad 
infinitum. 

Somerford was uneasy, but not utterly squelched. He 
was accustomed to such treatment. However, it appeared 
that the seven players were united against him; their 
little grudges and grievances were forgotten, or rather, 
were all directed against Somerford instead of against 
one another. 

“Cripes!” said Frank to himself. The more his friends 
talked at him, the more clearly he saw that he had to do 
something dramatic and heroic to quiet their tongues 
and redeem himself in their good graces. 

The seven went back to their game, but continued to 
fire sarcastic questions and ironic suggestions at the 
unhappy young false alarmist, who watched the game 
with an air of close attention; actually he was wondering 
desperately over the possibilities of his predicament. 
After a time he arose, and nonchalantly remarked that 
he was going out to try again to find Donnelly and his 
bottle of Gordon’s. Before he reached the door, he had 
the displeasure of hearing a chorus of ridiculing com¬ 
ments which spurred him on in his determination to 
“show that gang” he was not a piker. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Riley burst 
out. “He hasn’t any liquor in any car anywhere!” 

“Somebody ought to follow him,” suggested Brock, 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


151 


“and we’d see for sure if he’s crapping us. I’m tired 
of listening to his pipe dreams!” 

“That’s the dope!” exclaimed the pajamaed Beau. “I’d 
bet a dollar to a doughnut that he’s dreaming out loud 
again.” 

“Well?” Riley looked around the circle. “How about 
a little action? Who’ll go?” 

“I would if I were dressed,” submitted the Beau, “but 
I can’t go this way.” 

“Well, sacre bleu! Whoever goes must go quickly!” 
Riley was impatient. “How about you, Joe?” 

The individual addressed was the hatted but pantless 
figure who happened to be in at least temporary posses¬ 
sion of most of the money in the game. For this reason, 
the suggestion that he go out, if only for a few minutes, 
was a distinct faux pas on Riley’s part. He was properly 
overruled by a chorus of objections and counter pro¬ 
posals, and to save the day, McCarthy, who was not losing 
much at the moment, offered to go, and went. 

The game proceeded. The dice went around the circle 
of six once. Again. The third time. Fourth. Fifth. 
And still no sign of either Somerford or McCarthy. The 
boys began to be restless, and McCarthy was mentioned in 
uncomplimentary terms several times. 

“Maybe the two of them have gone off together,” sug¬ 
gested the Beau, who always exercised the unhappy 
faculty of saying the wrong thing at all times. 

O’Connell, who was McCarthy’s roommate and partner 
through thick and thin, resented the aspersion, and was 
loudly ready to fight the pajamas for the slur. The 
Beau, however, continued to talk saying “Well what 
the hell’s happened to him, then? Where is he? Why 
don’t he come back? He’s been gone long enough to 
get President Lowell and bring him here!” 

“He probably can’t find Somerford,” was O’Connell’s 
answer, “it took you snails so damned long to decide who 
was to have the honor of going! Why the hell didn’t 
you go, if you think you’re missing something?” No 


152 


WILD ASSES 


blows were struck and the game went on, albeit with 
remarks more and more frequently occurring with refer¬ 
ence to the two absentees and the long delay in their 
returning. 

When all hope had vanished, and even O’Connell had 
become restive, and the game had again come to the 
point of imminent death for want of interest on the part 
of the winners, McCarthy rushed in. 

“Guess where I found him!” he laughingly demanded. 

O’Connell ventured the guess that he probably found 
the lanky one “having tea with the Board of Overseers!” 
“But where the hell is he?” He was disgusted with his 
roommate. 

McCarthy suddenly realized that the six that had 
waited were not over-joyful in welcoming him. “He’s 
up the street,” he announced. 

“Up the street?” O’Connell’s disgust was unfathomable. 
Looking to the others, he went on, “Anybody’d think you’d 
discovered a diamond mine, the way you rushed in here! 
And he’s up the street, is he? A hell of a lot of good 
that does, doesn’t it?” 

“Well, he’s up the street, and he’s on his way down 
here with a quart of rye!” The last announcement 
brought forgiveness for McCarthy. 

“But rye? Did you say rye?” exclaimed the pajamas. 
“I thought he said he had gin.” 

“That’s the point! He did say he had gin—so let’s see 
how he explains it,” answered McCarthy. “I didn’t 
know where the hell to look for him. I stopped in the 
Pharm and the clerk told me he’d just been in there 
trying to buy some gin. Said he thought he’d gone 
over toward the Yard, so I wandered over to Weld, 
thinking he might have gone to that gang’s hangout 
over there, and-” 

“Did he get anything in the Pharm?” interrupted 
Joe, the hatted but pantless. 

“No—wait! I went to Weld and listened outside their 
door. Somerford was talking to Dick Walker, arguing 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


153 


with him about taking a quart of rye whiskey. Izzy Don¬ 
nelly was there, and evidently the whiskey belonged to 
him and Walker. Frank wanted to buy the quart from 
them, and finally told Izzy he could use his Ford to go in 
town after another one. Finally they agreed and began 
to stir around, so I moved. Now, let’s see what he 
has to say about it. Keep the game going for his grand 
entrance.” 

“Can you beat that guy?” inquired O’Connell, rhetoric¬ 
ally. 

“Guess we scared him into it,” Riley concluded. “How 
young men go wrong!” 

Again spirits revived. The game proceeded. Frank’s 
entrance was effected with his customary dash. From 
a roll of newspapers he produced a well-sealed quart 
bottle with a well-known label on it. He set it carelessly 
in the center of the group and proceeded to antici¬ 
pate their big question. “The gin was all gone. I got 
up to the Catholic Club just as Izzy got there—he was 
stewed to the eyebrows on my gin! Had about two 
drinks left, so I had to sit down and help him finish it. 
I said to him, ‘What the hell am I going to do? I’ve 
got to have some liquor right away; it’s already prom¬ 
ised,’ and the damned fool says, ‘Here, take this!’ and 
pulls out this quart and gives it to me. I figured it a 
pretty good trade, so I took it, and there you are. Go 
to it!” He smiled with a touching effect of fatigue, 
draping himself clumsily and clubbily over a hip-high 
bookcase in the corner of the room. 

The boys went to it. The pajamas went looking for 
a corkscrew. The pantless Joe began to collect the mot¬ 
ley assortment of glasses and mugs in the bathroom, bed¬ 
room and on the mantel. Riley, coming to life, remarked 
suddenly, “Jees, Frank! You ought to be plastered by 
this time. That must have been a stiff drink you and 
Izzy had—did it take you all this time to drink it?” 

McCarthy and Brock smiled, but Frank was not to be 
thus caught, saying, apologetically, as if he had forgotten 


154 


WILD ASSES 


to mention it before, “Oh, no—Izzy had to go to Allston, 
so I drove him over and then hurried back here. He was 
in tough shape, and I figured you fellows’d be wrapped 
up in your game so you wouldn’t mind the delay.” 

All eyes were twinkling. The drinks were poured. 
No one spoke until Riley answered Somerford’s explana¬ 
tion in an impromptu toast, saying, “Well, men, here’s 
to Frankaye, May he always pay, for every such delay, 
in such a satisfactory way!” 

“Down the dark alley!” echoed the pajamas. The 
glasses were drained, and all eyes turned toward Frank, 
who was still hesitating with his drink. They continued 
to look at him until, with a sudden closing of his eyes, 
a wry face, and a spluttering gulp, Frank downed his 
drink and smiled bravely back at them. He felt pretty 
unsteady and uneasy, hut he was mighty pleased with 
himself at that moment. 

“Great liquor, Frank,” said Riley, smacking his lips. 
“Have to hand you the hot and cold running maids as 
the connoisseur of liquor. This is great stuff!” 

His compliments were echoed by the others, and 
another drink was poured and taken. Frank’s went down 
easier this time, and to the others the second drink was 
very effective also. The atmosphere of the room was 
entirely cleared of the smoke of battle, the hitter and 
raw feeling which the crap game had engendered was dis¬ 
pelled. Frank was a good fellow, too. 

“A gentleman, a scholar, and a judge of good whiskey,” 
as Brock said, causing a hearty laugh all around, even 
Frank joining in. Every one felt better now, and Riley 
even suggested sending a personal letter of appreciation 
to the distillers of the rye which they were consuming 
with such satisfactory results. But this suggestion being 
overruled, Riley turned to Frank with a few leading 
questions on the subject of dice, and Frank’s experiences 
with those “cavorting heart-breakers.” 

True to expectations, Frank had plenty to say. Many 
and varied were his experiences with the leaping domi- 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


155 


noes. He had communed with the fickle Lady Luck in 
cut-throat games with some of the toughest taxi-drivers, 
vault mechanics and close-to-the-ground bootleggers. Real 
gambling, that! No place for little Frankie to play— 
every one suspected every one else of cheating. Frankie 
didn’t like it much. Then again he’d played in many an 
enjoyable game too—friendly little games in which a 
nickel caused as much excitement as a five-dollar bill. 
In fact, just the night before, they had had a little set- 
to on the Judge’s billiard table. Everybody was in the 
game, shootin’ just to be doing something. He dropped 
about five and quit—they were going too steep for him. 
No one would fade a dollar—nothing less than five to 
start, so he dropped out and watched the fun from afar. 
Frankly he didn’t care for the game—he’d played enough 
to see that it really doesn’t pay, etc., etc., etc. 

All this came out in a running line of chatter which 
Frank punctuated with appropriate gestures and accom¬ 
panied with an air of charming frankness and clubbiness. 

But Frank builded better than he knew; his frankness 
was the more appreciated because none of his hearers 
had ever seen or heard of Frank’s taking part in any of 
the skilled arts of chance, at cards or with the dice. 
They knew that he had been an interested spectator upon 
more than one occasion, but he had always studiously 
avoided sitting into any game as a player. But, as this 
day had already proved to be a day of revelations, in 
that Frank had actually made good on his promise of 
drinks, and had been seen to take not one but two stiff 
drinks of straight whiskey—on a day of such unexpected 
revelations as these, the assembled ones were quite natur¬ 
ally pleased with this recital of experiences, and almost 
suddenly began to entertain hopes that they might realize 
the previously incredible by seeing young Frank in a 
crap game. 

Riley, the irrepressible comedian and practical joker, 
was the first to see this possibility, and it was he who 
made the preliminary moves toward a resumption of the 


156 


WILD ASSES 


game. Under the influence of the whiskey, which was 
good beyond all expectation in that time when shoe-polish 
and hair-tonic were generally used as criteria for judging 
liquids to be drunk by human beings in America, the 
game was easily reorganized; money which had been 
slowly disappearing during the earlier session, appeared 
in abundance in all hands, and much shouting and good- 
natured cursing accompanied every play. 

From the very beginning Riley carried on a running 
appeal to Frank to join the party, and at last he suc¬ 
ceeded in placing a fifty-cent bet with that wary individual. 
Riley laid a dollar to Frank’s fifty cents that the pajamas 
would not make his point, which was four. The pajamas 
was such a hopeful-looking sight, so confident and reas¬ 
suring in the way he handled the dice and made his 
bets, and the others urged Frank so earnestly to take the 
bet, that Frank could not hold out any longer. He threw 
down two quarters in a careless way and remained in 
his previous position. Yet, try as he did, he could not 
appear as entirely unconcerned as he wished. 

The pajamas had an exceptionally long roll. He 
rolled a twelve. Then an eight. Then an eleven. 
Then a ten. Then a five twice. Frank was interested 
now; the suspense was drawing him down to the playing 
field. The pajamas laid a “come bet,” that he would 
make either a seven or eleven on the first roll, or repeat 
on whatever other point he threw on that roll. His bet 
was taken. He called for an eleven—no mention of the 
four. Frank slid from the edge of the desk on which 
he had been perched and stooped in the circle of players. 
Ten! The pajamas called for four or ten, and of a 
sudden, Frank’s voice joined his in a demand for “Four 
first, dice, and then a ten!” 

That was the beginning of the end for Somerford. The 
pajamas made the ten and laid another “come bet,” 
with Frank still calling for his four. More suspense— 
an eight—five—deuce—nine—ten—then four, and the 
pajamas and Frank picked up their winnings. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


157 


From that point on, Frank made some kind of a bet 
on every play, and his voice was among the highest and 
loudest of those disturbing the Sabbath peace. Upon 
his comrades this unseemly conduct on Frank’s part 
had the same effect as laughing-gas administered in small 
doses—they laughed, soon aloud, and to cover their 
laughing, cheered and coaxed the dice in tones growing 
steadily stronger and louder. The higher they raised 
their voices, the higher went the competing calls of Somer- 
ford, higher and louder, until bedlam seemed to reign 
in an unintelligible supremacy. 

“Damn you, Somerford!” Riley would exclaim now 
and then, just to be saying something. 

The spirit of the moment was irresistible, and was 
responsible for Frank’s undoing. He felt reckless, daring, 
wild. So far, he had been successful, and at every count 
his funds were greater. 

“Beginner’s luck!” Brock would whisper to Riley when 
opportunity permitted. 

“Boy, you’re goin’ good, there!” Brock would exclaim 
to Somerford, when a lull or a pause permitted his words 
to be heard. 

“Good!” Riley would rejoin, “I’m damned glad he 
isn’t shooting, or we’d all he broke!” 

Eventually these remarks had their effect. By recourse 
to an excuse on the basis of being extremely super¬ 
stitious about throwing dice, Frank had passed when¬ 
ever it came his turn to roll; he was prospering on the 
side bets and on betting against the dice, for invariably 
he won, although many times, after cheering lustily for 
his point, he had to be told to pick up his money; he 
was so excited that he didn’t really know whether he won 
or lost. 

Eventually, however, the comments had their effect 
upon him. A few drinks had been passed around and 
after taking one, at the very height of all the noise, the 
spirit of the moment possessed Frank’s whole being and, 
in a frenzy of confidence he accepted the dice in his 


158 


WILD ASSES 


turn, and began what has gone down in the annals of 
Fair Harvard as the prize gambling trick of all time. 

The human blade of eel-grass shook from tip to roots. 
His legs shook. His arms shook, moving so fast that 
the illusion of huskiness was produced. As a result 
of his body’s shaking, the dice in his hand rattled and 
cracked viciously. As another result, all others present 
began to shake—with laughter and excitement. The 
room shook, the whole place shook by the time Frank’s 
money had been covered. 

He shot one dollar as a starter. Riley, who had 
managed to recoup some part of his losses, covered it. 
The dice, upon leaving Frank’s hand, went in four 
directions: one went toward the ceiling and came down 
on the desk behind him, the other hit the opposite wall 
and caromed into the playing field. 

“Crap him!” cried Riley, gasping for breath and crawl¬ 
ing over to read the result. Frank was too excited to be 
able to read them. Riley called it a six on the floor and 
McCarthy read a one on the desk. 

“Hell!” ejacuated Riley, preparing to cover the two, 
but Frank made no move to pick up the money. Instead 
he was going through the shaking process again, crying 
and crooning to the dice in true Ethiopian fashion. 

“Seven’s ma point, dice! Let’s see a seven!” he 
cried and the dice flew out of his hand in opposite 
directions. When found, they showed a five and a two. 
“Seven she is, laddies! You can’t beat your papa on 
these things.” He laughed and majestically placed his 
right foot over the two dollars and surveyed his circle 
of opponents. All were watching him in dumbfounded 
incredulity. They could not even laugh; they could 
not speak. At last, when Riley could trust his voice, he 
whispered weakly, “Is that your point?” 

“Sure it was—seven!” replied Frank, unmoved. “I 
made a six and a one on the first roll and just now a 
five and a two.” 

Broad smiles began to replace the dumb expressions 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


159 


around the circle. Even yet, however, no one seemed to 
know what to do in a case like this, least of all Frank, 
who still posed over the two dollars in the center. 

“All right,” finally came from Riley in a tone which 
betrayed some sudden determination, “Shoot the two, 
Frank!” 

“Sure—shoot the two! All right?” 

“Shoot!” Riley covered with two dollars and looked 
around the circle for justification of his action before 
he turned his eyes again to the tall one with the dice. 

Frank had himself in motion again; the house shook 
and Frank shot. One cube, with a five up, was found 
on the mantel-piece; the other, with a six up was under 
the radiator. 

“Six and five are eleven!” counted Frank quickly, 
beginning to shake again. “ ’Leven’s ma point, babies— 
let’s see that eleven for papa!” 

The elevens were scarce at the moment, however, and 
he was forced to shake the building six times before he 
finally rolled a six and a five. 

Seeing it, O’Connell, who had been growing steadily 
weaker from laughter, gasped, “Gawd Gorboduc! He 
made it!” 

“Yeh—there she is, boys! Big eleven!” Frank again 
posed over the money and surveyed the circle. “Read 
’em and weep!” 

O’Connell took the latter advice literally and began 
to weep profusely, but Riley controlled himself long 
enough to lay four dollars on the floor, saying, “Shoot 
the four, Frank?” 

Frank shook and shot, amid wet-eyed encouragements 
from the circle, including even Riley, who, apparently 
the self-elected goat, could not decide just how to take 
this phenomenon. “I’d almost bet that the damned fool 
makes this one too!” he exclaimed, as Frank rolled. 

A five was the point and after half a dozen rolls, the 
five appeared, causing roars of laughter from every one 


160 


WILD ASSES 


but Riley, who promptly covered the eight dollars and 
cursed his luck in no uncertain terms. 

Frank threw a ten, then proceeded to roll all over the 
room trying to throw another ten, while, by his shaking, 
twisting, stamping, coaxing and allied contortions, he had 
the company wrecked with laughter. 

“There she is, boys! Read ’em and weep!” cried 
Frank. All hands came to the dice to see the ten. The sight 
was too much for them—their laughter burst out anew 
and they wept with abandon. O’Connell, taking Frank’s 
advice literally again, adjourned to the bathroom the 
better to weep inconspicuously. The pajamas, holding 
his money close to his chest, leaned forward until his 
head rested upon the desk whereon Frank had rested 
earlier in the session. McCarthy was trying vainly to 
put his money in the middle of the floor, failing several 
times for want of sufficient energy to complete the 
movement. The pantless Joe gave the appearance of 
a line of clothes flapping in the wind. The shaking 
was contagious. 

“Well!” announced Frank, starting as if to pick up 
the sixteen dollars which were now his. “What say, 
you fellows?” 

“Four here!” Riley said, belligerently. “Let’s see 
you take that away from me—it’s all I’ve got.” And 
looking to the others, he asked, “How about you laughing 
hyenas? Are your hands tied?” He glared uneasily at 
his friends. 

The response was as prompt as possible under the 
circumstances, so prompt, in fact, that before Frank 
realized it, his sixteen dollars were bet again. 

More crying! More shaking! Quiet. 

“An eleven!” Several gasps by Brock and McCarthy, 
who instinctively read the eleven as loss for them. 

More shaking. Quiet. “An eleven!” Utter silence. 
No shaking. No cheering. Suddenly Frank’s voice, 
husky to a whisper and shaking with excitement, saying, 
“Sh-oot the whole thing!” 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


161 


Pause. Silent glances between members of the opposi¬ 
tion. Pockets emptied. A check written. Sixty-four 
dollars in the pot. 

Frank shaking. Frank crying. Frank coaxing. Rat¬ 
tle of dice. Silence. Two cubes flying through the air. 
One reads two; the other reads six. 

More shaking. More noise. Movements. Frank roll¬ 
ing and picking up the dice, as ten, four, three, six 
and eleven appear in succession. Finally, when least 
expected, “There’s my eight!” in a low, rasping whisper. 

Dismay. Wonder. Anger. Frank beginning to pick 
up his money. 

“Wait!” Riley said, determined that by every law of 
percentages this fool could not keep on forever. “I’ll 
take twenty of it! How about you Brock?” 

Brock thought a moment, then said, “Ceerist! I’ll be 
broke for the next ten days, but I suppose we have to get 
our money back. I’ll take twenty!” 

Several checks. Frank shaking. No cheers. No pleas. 
Flying dice. Read one; read one! 

Hands reach for money. Stop. More silent glances 
around the circle and questioning looks toward Frank, 
who is unconcernedly shaking, calling for the two! 

Hands withdrawn. Silence except for the rattle of 
dice. A ten. Sighs. 

Again, shaking. A four. More sighs. 

Again, shaking. A six. A few signs of life. 

Again and again and again and again—Riley counted 
twenty-seven rolls with never a seven or a two. “How 
in hell can he ever roll another two?” asked Riley. 

“Um-m,” answered Brock. “That’s what I want to 
know, but where in the name of all that’s sacred are 
all the sevens?” 

Roll after roll passed and the party settled into a 
state of dazed fascination, too weak to laugh or cry, too 
expectant and on edge to plead with the dice. All eyes 
watched Frank and all minds were dazedly praying 
against him. 


162 


WILD ASSES 


Somewhere in the thirties—Riley lost count but swore 
he passed the thirty-three mark—two ones rolled to a 
stop, side by side, where all could see. The dropping 
of a pin would have sounded like a riot at that moment. 
After a moment that seemed ages long to all, Frank, 
utterly exhausted by his strenuous work, stepped toward 
his money, leaned over, but instead of picking it up, 
fell in a deathly white faint across it. 

“One hundred and twenty-eight dollars!” mumbled 
pajamas, and with the others he continued to stare 
stupidly down upon the prostrate figure. This interval 
was short, however; at once all jumped to help in the 
resuscitation of the victor. 

“Whiskey, quick!” exclaimed Riley, and the whiskey 
produced forthwith revived the fallen conqueror. But 
he made no move to gather in his harvest; he sat there 
in the middle of the floor, just beginning to realize what 
a terrible ordeal his foolhardiness had led him into— 
for Frank knew what the others only suspected, namely 
that he had never rolled a pair of dice before in his 
life! 

The others were almost speechless, the best they could 
offer being a few inane remarks about the liquor and 
the general state of pecuniary ruin brought on by Somer- 
ford’s phenomenal activities. Their losses, to which they 
referred constantly, did not however, seem to cause 
them much distress—which was unusual, it being always 
taken for granted that much sour crabbing would be 
in order at the moment of such disaster. And the ruin 
was all the more lamentable because the first of the 
month, ten days away, was the next “money” day 
for the majority of the players. In this instance, how¬ 
ever, there were no hard feelings whatsoever—recollec¬ 
tions of Frank’s dice-rolling persisted in making the 
losers want to laugh uproariously, as if that ray of light 
made the whole affair ludicrously funny, more fantasy 
than reality. 

Frank’s feelings and thoughts were beyond description, 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


163 


but the attitude of the erstwhile opposition was adequately 
explained by the pajamas shortly afterward in the bath¬ 
room, whither he had accompanied his quieter roommate 
who had chosen this moment for his arising. 

“Damnedest thing I ever heard of!” the pajamas was 
saying to the Brat in a low voice. “Can you beat that 
guy for unadulterated nerve? After all his blowing 
about how he’d shot craps with judges and taxi drivers, 
he had the nerve to get into that game in there, when 
he must have realized that he didn’t know a thing about 
the game—why, he didn’t even know that seven and 
eleven always win on the first roll, or that two, three 
and twelve are craps and always lose on the first roll. 
Gad, we almost passed out laughing at the poor fool!” 

“How much did he lose?” asked the lathered face 
before the mirror. 

“Lose?” The pajamas laughed. “Hell’s bells, he cleaned 
out the crowd. He made every damned thing that he 
came out on—twos, elevens, and every other point he 
shot for. He rolled for half an hour try in’ to make a 
two—mind you, a two, a crap, which nobody in God’s 
world could ever throw! But he made it, and made one 
hundred and twenty-eight dollars by making it! Ran it 
up from one measly dollar, too! Why-” 

In came Riley, smiling queerly. “Can you beat that 
damned fool’s luck!” he exclaimed. 

“Huh!” The Beau thought it unbeatable and said so, 
adding, “I was just telling Brat about it. But what 
the hell are we going to do about it?” 

The shaver turned from the mirror and asked quietly, 
“How much money has he got now?” 

“Why,” Riley calculated, “he must have about seventy 
dollars in cash and the rest in checks.” 

The Beau had a sudden inspiration, upon the mention 
of money. “Say—we could have an awful party on 
seventy dollars!” 

“Why not suggest it to him?” asked Brat, disin¬ 
terestedly. 



164 


WILD ASSES 


“No sooner said than done!” Riley was happy over 
the thought of getting something out of his money. “We 
could have one sweet party for seventy dollars!” He 
slipped out again to start the ball rolling in that direction. 

Somerford, still pale and dishevelled, was the same 
grotesque figure in the center of the study floor when 
Riley came to present, with enviable tactfulness, the sug¬ 
gestion. The Irishman began by saying that he knew 
where there were many bottles of excellent liquor of an 
old, old brand, and several girls of very few morals, and 
that since no one had much of anything to do for the 
afternoon and evening, making connections with these 
two would be a happy and altogether desirable enterprise, 
a noble way for Frank to employ his winnings. “What 
do you think, Frank?” 

Before Frank quite understood the subtle suggestion, 
and before he realized what it was all about, the others 
had completed the tentative plans for the party, and the 
pajamas was at the telephone inviting the chosen ladies 
to help them spend their month’s end funds, which, it 
appeared, just happened to be in Mr. Somerford’s care 
temporarily. As treasurer, he was too dazed to offer 
objections or excuses. Feeling that it was the thing to 
do, he arose to the occasion with magnanimous sports¬ 
manship and tried to assume his customary blase air 
as he gathered up his winnings and announced, “O.K.— 
anything up to one hundred and twenty-seven! And 
I’ll break a date to go.” Which is, altogether, one way 
of learning. 

Then, to satisfy himself that he really was hitting the 
life of the elect, as portrayed in the movies, magazines 
and novels, he drank, striking a Long John Silver pose, 
the remaining two inches of the quart which he had 
donated. Which is altogether, if carried far enough, 
another way of learning. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


165 


“Lead the Brat to Liquor 
But you cannot make him Drink 

—Riley’s Unpublished Notes. 

Suppressed desires — Curiosity — Antipathy toward 
Monotony—Anticipation of Excitements—Thrills just 
around the Corner—Experience as a Teacher—Acute 
Ennui and Fear of Missing Something—Wild Oats for 
Idle Hands to Sow—Something to Do—Learn Early and 
Be a Better Man by knowing what to avoid later—Know 
Thyself and as Many Other People as Will Let You— 
Unsatisfied Curiosity Kills a College Chap—Spontaneous 
Combustion! 

A definite, specific, determinate description of the 
causes of parties, and the motives or reasons in the 
undergraduates’ minds at the time of promoting and going 
on parties whose only virtue is that they invariably 
become so unreasonably wild that the individuals’ antic¬ 
ipated evil-doings are impossible of completion, is de¬ 
fied by the conditions, but the above assortment of 
terms and phrases indicates more or less effectively the 
general attitude of both undergraduates and their female 
consorts. 

On the occasion in question, much time was spent at 
the telephone by the Beau and by Riley, their efforts 
resulting in the securing of satisfactory companions for 
all hut two of the expectant gentlemen. Arriving at this 
point, they were at a loss for additional recruits to the 
cause, having tried several sources of supply without 
success. 

“How about Elizabeth from Malden?” asked Riley, 
suddenly inspired. 

“No—not a prayer of getting her,” replied the Beau. 
“I understand she’s traveling with successful young bond 
salesmen and bank clerks—she wouldn’t think of going 
on a collegiate party now!” 

“She’s graduated, eh?” commented Riley, smiling. 
“We’re too puerile for the young lady who is so sophis- 


166 


WILD ASSES 


ticated! —Damned shame about some of these girls! 
—however, let’s see: how about the soubrette or the 
dowagers?” 

“There’s a thought,” agreed the Beau. 

“We can probably get the soubrette and one of the 
dowagers, in case of a pinch! They’re not so bad, either 
—both good sports about everything, even if they are a 
bit antiquated! What say?” 

“May as well call them,” submitted the French Cana¬ 
dian, who was ready to sign up any trollop who happened 
along, his service at the telephone being, as he said, “Not 
as much fun as you damned plutocrats seem to think!” 

In due time,- and with appropriate drinking and merry¬ 
making, the party was organized, and the business of 
seeking pleasure for pleasure’s sake began to pick up. 
Before evening the various members of the crowd had 
leisurely shaved or dressed or gone after some special 
brand of “bootleg,” and all was set for a jamboree which 
would make even the wildest and most zealous follower of 
folly excited in anticipation. 

This party was to be one to remember, to tell about; it 
was to be a memorable experience, not just an ordinary 
time-passing device. The sky was to be the limit in all 
phases of the evening’s entertainment—women, drinking, 
singing, dancing! There was to be neither restraint nor 
coercion; every one was going for the purpose of having 
a good time, and it was up to every man to see that he 
had that or more. It was to be “Every man for himself 
and let hell be the consequences!” Thus might be de¬ 
scribed the collective expectations for Somerford’s party. 

The program called for an early start from the rooms 
opposite the church, but it was nearly eight o’clock before 
the third and last car, containing Riley, Beauvais and 
Maunstein, pulled away from the curb. The others hav¬ 
ing just gone to collect their respective fair damsels, all 
were to meet at a well-known Italian slum joint in the 
North End, where a light dinner with wine and cocktails 
would be provided (primarily for the girls—it being 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


167 


taken as a matter of course that the proper procedure 
for a mixed-up party required a get-together dinner with 
much drinking, because, as Riley often maintained, every 
party girl, regardless of how crazy or dizzy she might 
be, was rather poor company and at best much less enter¬ 
taining and daringly intriguing when not properly oiled). 
According to all criteria and experience at Riley’s com¬ 
mand, it was, he estimated, inconceivable that there 
would be any girl in this party who would be in need of 
lubrication by the time the dinner had been finished. 
There would be no uncongenial spirits—Riley could be 
depended upon to see to that. Rather, they would all be 
ready and eager to go anywhere and do anything when 
the time came for anything to be done. 

Such was the early stage of the party in prospect, and a 
feeling of intense anticipation of rare excitements was 
evidenced in the laughs and curses of every male member 
—not only, it appeared, because of the nature of the 
party itself, but also because the personnel included two 
members of the crowd whose relations with the so-called 
defensive sex had at various times been a subject of curi¬ 
ous discussion among them. These two, namely Somer- 
ford Hamilton, the boastful, and Bratten, the human ma¬ 
chine, although entirely unlike each other, were alike for 
once in being expected to furnish entertainment of some 
kind for the benefit of their friends, this entertainment 
to consist simply in the tactics which they would employ 
against their female partners for the evening. 

“This is going to be good, young fellow!” Brock had 
exclaimed when Riley outlined the plot to him. 

“Unlimited possibilities!” Riley had laughed in return. 
“God only knows what to expect from either of them!” 

However, notwithstanding the Lord’s monopoly on this 
knowledge, every one was expecting some interesting de¬ 
velopments. For all of this there was an easy explana¬ 
tion: Bratten was too virtuous to be human, and his well- 
known habit of avoiding temptations and vices and petty 
or grand sins of every kind had made his friends ex- 


168 


WILD ASSES 


tremely curious and, perhaps, envious. Brat avoided 
these things because they did not interest him, his well 
formed habits not comprehending or providing for any 
interest in women or allied dissipations. In view of 
which, the attitude of his friends was humanly natural 
and not in the least malicious, as it might appear to the 
casual observer. Somerford’s case was diametrically the 
opposite of Brat’s. All agreed that Somerford was in his 
talk too wild and world-weary to be true. No one had 
ever seen him in any kind of action; no one had ever been 
on a party with him; indeed, there was widespread doubt 
as to whether he had ever been on a real party. He had 
for so long and at such length related his exploits with 
the fair sex that he had promoted, in the minds of his 
hearers, first angry curiosity and later smiling disbelief. 
As a result, their attitude toward him was as much in 
the course of human nature as their attitude toward Brat; 
they were now visualizing the scenes which might prove 
this precocious individual a ridiculous prevaricator; they 
would now have the long-hoped-for opportunity of seeing 
the self-made heart breaker in action. 

“I rather suspect we’ll be entertained,” Riley told the 
Beau, after explaining to him that he knew Somerford’s 
destined partner for the evening well enough to whisper 
a few devilish suggestions to her regarding her escort’s 
proclivities and his own surmises. It was to be expected 
that the girl would be the fisherman in whatever game the 
unsuspecting Frank might attempt to play. “And as for 
Brat,” laughed the young Irishman, “it may be a case of 
an irresistible force meeting an immovable object: he’ll 
be up against the most seductive, sensuously attractive 
woman that I know; we’ll see how long his virtuous dis¬ 
interestedness will survive!” 

“But how in the name of God,” asked Maunstein, in the 
car with Riley and the Beau, “did you get Brat to go on a 
party like this? He isn’t drunk, he hasn’t had a drink, 
they tell me—and it would take more than the combined 
charms of Cleopatra and the Queen of Sheba to interest 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


169 


him! What does he want on a party like this? You 
must have hired him to come!” 

“Gad—there’s another laugh for you! You should 
have heard me talking to him!” replied Brat’s seducer, 
laughing so heartily as to impede his talking. After a 
moment he managed to continue, “He refused absolutely 
to come with me at first. Said he didn’t see any reason 
for his coming along. I told him he’d have the beautiful 
but bluntly honest blonde bearcat—you know, Georgia 
Marshall, the lady that’s known as Lou, from Brookline 
—but that didn’t please him at all; said he didn’t care 
about meeting Georgia or any other wild woman. Jees, it 
was funny!” Riley laughed at the recollection. 

“Well, finally,” he continued, “I had tried every argu¬ 
ment imaginable and they all failed to move him. As an 
afterthought, I told him we wanted him to come along 
because we all expected to be royally plastered to the 
hair roots, and therefore we’d need some one along to 
take care of us. To that, he at first said he guessed we’d 
get along all right, but he couldn’t argue much on that 
point, so I kept pleading with him, almost on bended 
knees, as if we all would sure as hell be arrested and sent 
to some loathsome jail unless he came with us. He grad¬ 
ually weakened and finally said he’d come—so he is the 
official chaperon of the party! Imagine it!” 

More laughter, with Maunstein saying, “This gang is 
going to hell fast! Pretty soon we’ll be hiring wet- 
nurses to look after us.” More laughter, and many off¬ 
color jokes regarding Brat’s impending chaperonage, as 
the three in the car rode to Somerville for their ladies 
in waiting. 

“Allah is merciful!” exclaimed Riley, as he noted that 
the crowd had suffered no losses since their separation in 
Cambridge. The party was uproariously completed by 
the arrival of Riley, Beau and Maunstein with their girls, 
and the festivities in Giovanni’s place, judging by the 
noisy welcome accorded them, were, in so far as refresh¬ 
ments were concerned, well begun. 


170 


WILD ASSES 


Half-drained glasses were scattered around the long 
table. The girls were smoking, and talking in shrill, 
glass-tinkling tones, while their escorts were variously 
engaged in telling, with flushed faces and forced smiles, 
some latest risque story, or listening studiously to some 
one else telling one, or taking a drink, or trying to per¬ 
suade a girl to take another, or calling for order in order 
to keep the nervous, tolerantly smiling waiter busy, or 
playing with the silverware, or making under-cover ad¬ 
vances to a skirted companion, or talking earnestly with 
said companion who was listening with distracted atten¬ 
tion, or doing one and then another of these things or 
something else equally prosaic and intrinsically unexcit¬ 
ing. All were obviously of the opinion that they were 
having a “real” time, and that the situation was pregnant 
with impending thrills and dangers, which, of course, 
could not be expected to materialize until later. The 
women were for the most part engaged in furtively study¬ 
ing themselves—that is, every woman was studying every 
other woman, it being the chief concern of every party 
girl to understand the makeup of the party on the female 
side. Such understanding enables her to act accordingly 
and feel safe, it being invariably true that a single “wet 
blanket” or “false alarm” or “flat tire” or “misfit” would 
spoil the party for all, since the other girls would know it 
in a very few minutes, and all would take it as their clue 
to let her conduct be their guide. All of which being so 
invariably true, precautions against having any such con¬ 
dition develop had been one of Riley’s chief concerns. 
His knowledge of such things comprehended fully the 
fact that in a mixed-up party the girls never worry about 
what the men are thinking (they know what every man 
expects) but they are serious students of the fine arts 
of feminine camouflage and affectations. “A woman,” 
said Riley, “instinctively lets every other woman’s con¬ 
science be her guide, while a man depends entirely upon 
his own.” 

Riley had planned well. No misfits or Calamity Janes 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


171 


were apparent at this stage of the party, and all was going 
serenely when Riley and his company arrived. No one 
appeared to be terribly bored or out of place, and Riley 
swore Allah’s praises again when he noted the general 
congeniality which prevailed. 

“That must be good liquor,” said Beau, calling Riley’s 
attention to Brat, speechless and inexpressive, evidently 
entirely under blonde Georgia’s wing. 

“The stubborn ape hasn’t touched his drink,” rejoined 
Riley in an undertone, after following Beau’s gaze and 
seeing the untouched glass before Brat’s place. But look 
at Somerford!” The imperious manicurist whom he had 
drawn was making the self-gilded youth transform him¬ 
self into a perfect ass to please her affected whims and 
fancies. Brock looked on and laughed. 

Soon Giovanni’s place was practically in their hands, 
the few remaining diners lingering on merely to watch 
this obviously wild crowd getting away to such an aus¬ 
picious start; these few, however, were unnoticed, for, as 
far as the party was concerned, the whole place belonged 
to them and they proceeded to take possession of it. Din¬ 
ner was served and they ate. Some one suggested danc¬ 
ing, but as the Boston blue laws prohibit any terpsicho- 
rean activity on the Sabbath, the hapless couple who 
acted upon the suggestion was immediately returned to 
the table by the suddenly excited and frowning Giovanni. 
The three-piece orchestra, however, was willing to play 
when and what they asked them to play, so that the pro¬ 
hibition upon dancing encouraged them in singing. More 
food. Wine was served in coffee cups, and even Brat 
had a taste. A girl asked for a perfumed cigarette, and 
her man, Brock, ordered eight varieties of colored, per¬ 
fumed, cork-tipped and plain cigarettes, a selection of 
cigars and a package of “Honest Workman” scrap to¬ 
bacco, and threw the assortment over the length of the 
table, giving his girl the “Honest Workman” with some 
remark about “apropos” which proved to be more true 
than he suspected. More food. Mixed nuts. A round of 


172 


WILD ASSES 


cocktails with several straight whiskeys. Some one called 
for Harvard songs; the orchestra rendered them unrec¬ 
ognizable, but they all joined in singing. Somerford’s 
manicurist, ever at him, asked that he do the Pipes of Pan 
for the company, with the result that the orchestra played 
the most classic' number in the repertoire, which hap¬ 
pened to be something concerning a Cuckoo or a Nightin¬ 
gale, and Frank did it until his neck was bulging blue. 
Singing by the orchestra, by request. The orchestra 
earned a drink and got it. More music. More smoking. 
Singing. Drinking. An irrepressible movement toward 
the dance floor, which Giovanni could not prevent until 
he stopped the orchestra, after two or three minutes of 
dancing had been enjoyed by all. Again at the table, a 
rotten-toast contest was started. Brock gave the classic, 
“Here’s to Woman, the Mother of Us All, etc.” The 
manicurist followed with the ode, “To the Breezes that 
Blow through the treeses and ... !” The manicurist 
was acclaimed as being in at least temporary possession 
of the laurels, but several others which followed upon 
her offering were so outrageously pointed and so gener¬ 
ally unknown that the little manicurist was voted down, 
and had to seek consolation with Frank in another drink. 
In the end the contest was won by a bob-haired physical 
culture teacher, who offered a bit of verse the sense of 
which was worthy (according to the verse) of emulation 
by human beings. Much cheering after that one; the vote 
was taken by acclamation and the winner cutely curtsied, 
revealing her hither and thither to the delight of all. 

The party was fast becoming riotous and maudlin, and 
Brat, the invited chaperon and caretaker of drunks, ad¬ 
monished Riley to quiet the session a bit, whereupon 
Riley arose to the occasion by announcing that certain 
friends had extended an invitation to the crowd to visit 
and occupy, for as long a time as they wished, the friends’ 
secluded summer camp, situated on the seashore some 
twenty miles from Boston. Would they accept? The 
chorus of “Ayes” was drowning, and Riley proposed 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


173 


going at once, after “one more drink, which,” he said, 
when the glasses were filled, “is to the ladies, God bless 
’em, . . .!” 

This prefatory toast was answered by the physical cul- 
turist in a daring exhortation to all to “Let joy be unre¬ 
fined!” 

The movement toward the door began and the exodus 
was consummated with remarkable quiet and facility 
under the supervision of Brat and the Beau, while Riley 
helped Somerford pay the check, the amount of which 
has never been definitely remembered by any one. That 
done, Riley glanced over Giovanni’s place before depart¬ 
ing. “Looks like Kansas post-tornado!” he said to Som¬ 
erford as the two went out to the cars. 

“It ought to!” replied the lanky one, thinking of the 
purse which had been wrecked by Giovanni’s bill. 

“Well, every one’s well oiled, Frankie, and the party’s 
on its smooth-running way toward a place where joy can 
be unrefined and the way of all flesh can be traveled!” 
answered Riley, warming in anticipation again. He was 
happy. They were going to a very deserted neighbor¬ 
hood, where their activities could be unrestrained, with¬ 
out fear of molestation or arrest, or any other kind of 
interference. There was no fly in any one’s ointment. 
The best was yet to come, and, with his imaginative 
powers, the very act of anticipation was more pleasant 
than any realization could possibly be. He anticipated 
much, the maj or portion of which would have merited the 
scarlet letter or the scaffold in dear old Puritania. 

The twenty intervening miles were somehow accom¬ 
plished, in spite of the heavy load of intoxicating bev¬ 
erages which the drivers, except Brat, were carrying, in a 
remarkably short time. The ride was, of course, accom¬ 
panied by inordinate singing and loud, unintelligible 
noises, but for some reason (as is usually the case in all 
such incidents) scarcely any one could recall afterwards 
any part of that journey. Every one could easily remem¬ 
ber having been in a car and riding through city streets 


174 


WILD ASSES 


and country roads, but it would have been impossible 
for most of them to tell by what route, through what 
streets or towns or districts they traveled, or to describe 
any minor incidents which happened in their travels. 
Sufficient that they knew they were traveling, and that 
wherever they were headed, all was and would be well; 
the time has never been when it required a town crier 
to make a drunken man agree that all’s well. 

To all of which the one exception was the estimable, 
truly redoubtable Brat. He was sober, having had but a 
single cup of Giovanni’s miserable wine, and Georgia’s 
unrelenting seductive devices had so far availed her but 
little. It appeared that Brat’s moral machinery was func¬ 
tioning as ordinarily, and that his control was unassail¬ 
able. Thus Brat might have recalled, if he were a reflec¬ 
tive individual, which he most certainly was not, that ride 
as very eventful, with frequent stoppings and trifling in¬ 
conveniences, not relished by him, for he was throughout 
it all in complete control of all his faculties, the cup of 
wine and Georgia notwithstanding. 

Eventually and in remarkably good time, considering 
all the circumstances, the party arrived en masse at their 
destination on the shore and, despite the fact that the 
house, which had been closed virtually all winter and 
spring, had to be opened and aired and its accommoda¬ 
tions investigated by Brat and Riley and others, almost 
immediately the excitement began. The fun did not wait 
upon the investigation. No sooner were coats and other 
unnecessary articles of apparel removed and deposited 
than a round of drinks was forthcoming, a Victrola was 
discovered and uncovered, and a composite picture of a 
cabaret, an exhibition dance contest, a burlesque show, 
a fire sale and a mob bedlam was presented. The old 
house, which had weathered many storms of various ele¬ 
ments, must have thought that some kind of black magic 
wand had been passed over it with immediate, transform¬ 
ing effects, for the whole place was within a few min¬ 
utes a riot of lights and noises, in no detail in keeping 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 175 

with the deserted aspect of the surrounding lands and 
cottages. 

To describe in detail the incidents of the ensuing festi¬ 
val would require absolute repudiation or abolition of 
all the censorship and otherwise-blue laws by which 
certain estimable old aristocrats think they have made 
Boston and her Commonwealth famous throughout our 
broad land of liberty. For an adequate idea of all that 
transpired there on this occasion, one might lei»rhis imag¬ 
ination run as fast and as far as it can, and then put it in 
a Martian aeroplane of the speediest and most endurable 
type—everything passed on the way and everything at 
the ultimate end of the wild flight of one’s imagination 
will contribute to an understanding of the magnitude and 
scope of this bacchanalian jubilee of unleashed repres¬ 
sions, liberated inhibitions and forgotten morals. It was 
a party of parties! 

Yet, however indescribable many phases of this affair 
were, a few scattered incidents can be given, as sugges¬ 
tive of the whole. Not long after the arrival at the 
beach house, the physical cultural expert became engaged 
in a heavy, intellectual discussion with Beau, who, as 
a pre-medical student, had several advanced courses in 
medical psychology to his credit. Whatever the general 
subject of their" argument, it ended suddenly with the 
Beau explaining to the young lady that she had a very 
noticeable inferiority complex of a very dangerous kind, 
whereupon, without further argument, the young lady 
gave a yell and a leap and ended with, “Hurray-ye! I’ve 
got a ’feriority complex!” 

The manicurist, beginning to waver in many ways 
about this time, showed her confidence in Somerford by 
explaining disdainfully, “Tie that! That woman’d drink 
anything!” 

She probably meant no open insult to the lady with 
the inferiority complex; indeed, she laughed, as if she 
had sprung a good joke. The others, however, laughed 
at her ignorance, and the bob-haired athlete was grieved 


176 


WILD ASSES 


and very much upset, so much so that she had to have 
another drink to pacify and exalt her outraged self- 
respect. 

Within a few minutes of this incident, the thirty-five- 
year-old soubrette, who had been vainly trying to keep 
her escort, Maunstein, aged twenty-two and a handsome, 
athletic sort of fellow, from paying too much unnecessary 
attention to some of the younger pullets, was heard to 
exclaim, half in awe-inspired respect and half in com¬ 
plaining discomfort, “I’ve seen a lot of parties, but this 
is the worst yet.” 

Her conclusion was received with a loud chorus of 
agreements, and Somerford awakened long enough to 
advise her that she could safely wager a certain unmen¬ 
tionable that she’d never live to see a wilder one. In 
general, however, it seemed to be the consensus of opin¬ 
ion that the lady, by virtue of the well-known broad 
experiences of her life since she left home to go with 
a third-rate burlesque show certainly ought to be able to 
speak with authority on the subject of wild parties. Even 
her Maunie, who was one of those handsome, smiling, 
gleaming, dashing men whom women want to love and 
men want to kill—the kind that women adore and men 
distrust—paid her homage by returning to the fold of 
her society for a surprising period of time. 

Incidents followed close upon incidents. Things hap¬ 
pened fast, were uproariously attended, forgotten and 
discarded for the succeeding point of interest. Argu¬ 
ments and wrangles were frequent, in the midst of most 
of which was Brock, waving a bottle and tearfully admon¬ 
ishing, “Here, gin’ll cure you all! Gin’s good for that! 

I knew a fellow once-” but his voice was always 

drowned by the response. Several playful wrestling 
matches were staged, ending usually in both male and 
female contestants being bruised and scratched, so that 
Brock was kept busy with his gin bottle and his ever- 
ready, “Gin’s good for that!” until finally he had emptied 
his bottle and discovered that no one would entrust him 



TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


177 


with another, so that he was forced to make his solicita¬ 
tions consist of, “Gin’d be just the thing for that! Have 
you got any?” 

Three hours later Brock had ministered to so many 
needy persons that finally he himself fell asleep in the 
bathtub, with his artificial leg afloat before him. His last 
words were to himself: “Brock, old timer, gin’s just the 
thing you need—but—cupboard’s bare—so —pax vobis - 
cum” 

Every girl but his own mourned Brock’s passing, for 
his girl, thus set free, was a constant source of distraction 
for the other girls’ men (and women are so generous in 
that way; especially when the wine has flowed there¬ 
abouts in any quantities!). She and Brock had not been 
very friendly since early evening, because, as he ex¬ 
plained self-effacingly, “That girl can’t see fun spelled 
without a —ds on the end of it, and Brock is just a poor 
old soldier.” Her mercenary schemes had an appropri¬ 
ate climax in a little affair with Somerford, who had been 
discarded by the manicurist as a “Kid Nuisance,” which 
came to a sudden end in an exasperated denunciation of 
the hapless youth, which denunciation included a refrain 
about “robbing cradles for nothing.” Somerford, how¬ 
ever, unconvinced, followed her around for the rest of 
the evening session, until at last, worn out by his efforts, 
he succumbed to Morpheus. The lady, who was the one 
who received the “Honest Workman” scrap at Giovanni’s, 
gradually discovered that she was entirely out of her ele¬ 
ment. Eventually, after being advised by the Beau to 
“cut out the funny stuff! It isn’t that kind of a party, 
sister! All these girls come from good homes, are decent 
girls, just looking for excitement—you don’t suppose 
any of this crowd likes that sort of stuff, do you?”— 
eventually, she came to the conclusion that she was fight¬ 
ing a losing game and tried to drown her very evident 
sorrow in drink; she succeeded, the accumulated liquor 
began to take command of her usually dependable and 
steady faculties, and she felt like being a good fellow 


178 


WILD ASSES 


for once in her hard life, but Somerford was beyond 
joining her long before that time arrived. 

As the night wore on, the drinks became more infre¬ 
quent but more effective—almost every round proved to 
be the proverbial last straw for some one, with the inevit¬ 
able result that the main party in the living room grad¬ 
ually diminished to a sort of survival of the fittest. 

At four-thirty a.m., Riley suggested to the survivors 
that all gather around and join in a crap game with 
their clothes for counters! The survivors numbered at 
this time: one married man who was playing truant from 
his benedictine couch; one Brock, who had recovered 
himself sufficiently to be able to move around again with 
his “Gin’s the stuff!” cry; one Martin, a man who had 
demonstrated his ability to drink anything up to carbolic 
acid and continue to live; one bob-haired schoolteacher, 
merely standing, nothing more; one disgruntled Georgia, 
disgusted with the party and deserted by her man; one 
Maunstein, now on good terms with the soubrette; one 
soubrette; one Beau, “just getting warmed up!” with the 
liquor; one dowager, a pretty well-shaped woman of the 
soubrette’s age (perhaps), who had missed a lot of things 
in her youth and was now trying to make up for lost 
time; and one still sober but tremendously sleepy Brat. 
Four women and six men were available for Riley’s pro¬ 
posed game, and all present greeted the suggestion with 
what little eagerness they could command, except the 
pretty dowager and the man whom she had won for her¬ 
self in the course of the night’s battle, by her kindly, 
quietly interested attitude toward him—the Brat. These 
two, she reclining upon a mattress of pillows which Brat 
had arranged for her in the window seat, and he sitting 
in an armchair beside her, offered to referee the game in 
case of disputes. 

The soubrette refused to play until all lights were ex¬ 
tinguished, but Riley, after explaining that they had to 
have light to read the dice, compromised with her by 
turning out all but a small study lamp, which was set 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


179 


in the middle of the floor to illumine only the playing 
field. She was mollified. The game was on! 

It lasted until long after daybreak, and was in many 
respects the queerest crap game of which Riley or the 
worldly-wise Martin had ever heard. It was slow, unex¬ 
citing, absolutely dull at times, in spite of the fact that 
every loss was a considerable one in that it required the 
removal of whatever piece of clothing had been bet. 
Even the women accepted the losses dully, as if it were a 
matter of course and merely a question of time; they had 
the alternative of paying their losses or retiring from the 
game to the sidelines, and the soubrette was the first 
to take advantage of this alternative to draw her Maunie 
out of the game. The male contestants, who did the 
shooting, evidenced but little more enthusiasm, with the 
exception of Brock and the renegade benedict, both of 
whom showed bursts of active interest in anticipation of 
certain victor’s spoils. 

In the end all were eliminated and disposed of except 
these two and the fair, seductive Georgia, and after sev¬ 
eral unsuccessful attempts to win the damsel by the 
dice, Brock, exhausted but still excitable and responsive 
to stimuli, suggested a compromise. Georgia agreed, 
being so little interested and so utterly exhausted that 
she begged off and told them to settle the fight between 
them. Which they did try to do, but without success at 
once. 

Still deadlocked after ten minutes of wild shooting and 
betting, they despaired of an amicable settlement, when 
suddenly Brock suffered an inspiration which shook him 
to his toes. He led the benedict into an adjoining room 
for a private conference. In the corner of the room was 
a big, comfortable armchair, and into it the benedict re- 
lievedly slid, while Brock, who was at the moment the 
soberest man in the house, except Brat, stood over him 
menacingly and began to talk. He began by reminding 
him that he was a married man and that he was a damned 
fool for ever coming on a party like this one; that he, 


180 


WILD ASSES 


his old friend Brock, had been trying every way possible 
to keep him from going too far astray, from doing some¬ 
thing he’d regret in the morning (it was now morning)—- 
that he was there, trying to help him; that he ought to be 
ashamed to even think of cheating on such a wonderful 
girl as his wife; that she was far and away too fine and 
decent and lovely to be married to such a scapegrace, 
such a cheater; that he was an ingrate, absolutely devoid 
of sense of honor or appreciation of feminine worth and 
beauty; that he, Brock, would give his one remaining leg 
to be taking off his (the benedict’s) shoes for just one 
night; that—etc., etc. 

When he finished, the wretched man was in tears. For 
a moment speech was impossible, but at last he arose and 
steadying himself by grasping Brock’s hand solemnly, he 
swore by all the gods that he appreciated everything: his 
wife, and Brock’s solicitous care for him, among other 
things; and that he hoped the Lord would strike him 
dead if he ever ventured on such a party again. With a 
last, solemn shake of the hand, which almost knocked 
over Brock, who was none too steady himself, he fell 
back into the chair and proved his sincerity by promptly 
falling into a deep, sonorous sleep! 

Brock, all agog but staggering unsteadily, returned 
without delay to claim his winnings. But the winnings 
had neglected to wait. He found her, after a painstaking 
and careful search of all the rooms, in a chair in a far 
corner of the living room, dead to the world, in such a 
stupor that volcanoes and earthquakes could not have dis¬ 
turbed her. Brock tried several times, cursed his “unmiti¬ 
gated tough luck!” and laid himself down to sleep also, 
after one glance at the lumberous Brat and his pretty 
dowager, both asleep in the sleep of the not guilty. 

* * * 

“The moral to all of which,” said Riley to Brock later 
in the day, as they leaned shakily over the kitchen sink 
making a whitish drink, “is that most of the joys of this 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


181 


living business lie in the anticipation of pleasures and 
achievements—the dramatists and novelists call it sus¬ 
pense; it goes by various names, but it’s just plain antici¬ 
pation of expected things! Anticipation is greater than 
realization every time!” 

“Maybe so, young feller,” rejoined Brock, raising his 
glass to his lips, where he held it for a moment, saying, 
“Anyway, I’m anticipating some great relief from this 
bromo-seltzer, and personally I hope God protects the 
man that invented these bloomin’ things.” 

And since a goodly portion of the joys of anticipation 
lies in faith, the bromos had a very beneficial effect upon 
both Riley and Brock, as well as sundry others who 
visited the kitchen from time to time throughout that day, 
for the “morning after” was of the usual kind, with thick 
tongues, cotton throats and general lack of ambition well 
distributed in all quarters. And to top it all, several of 
the girls began to realize with trepidation that they 
should have gone home sometime during the night, “any 
time would have done,” as one put it hopelessly, “any 
time, just so I was there when Dad got up this morning.” 
Worry over parental wrath, combined with the afore¬ 
mentioned symptoms of after-morningness, resulted in 
bringing about a council of war, at which it was decided 
that the logical thing to do under the circumstances was 
to call the respective parents of the girls and tell them 
some story—the best story being that they had gone to a 
Mrs. Smith-Jones’s country place the night before and, on 
account of motor trouble, were unable to get back. All 
those who had to call home were piled into a car and 
taken to the nearest town, whence they called and satis¬ 
fied their consciences by that much at any rate. 

Brat alone, and perhaps his dowager, were exempt from 
these sufferings of the morning after, so customarily 
grinned at and borne. These two had become magneti¬ 
cally attached during the festivities of the preceding eve¬ 
ning and, Brat not imbibing freely, the wise lady stoically 
forewent the greater part of her usual quota of drinks, 


182 


WILD ASSES 


with the result that both were quite sober at all times 
and especially after their sleep in the bay window, which, 
though short, had been almost sufficient for refreshing 
them. So the morning found this pair still enjoying 
themselves, while the others were having their troubles of 
various sorts. 

Brat’s Georgia was especially upset, both physically 
and mentally. Despite all her wiles and inviting charms, 
Brat had failed to register any response, and had finally 
let himself be taken entirely from her by this old veteran 
of many campaigns, who had somehow managed to 
appear still pretty and intriguing. Georgia was a clever 
girl, when things were going her way, but exasperation, 
on account of the hurt which her vanity and prestige had 
undergone, caused her cunning to have a brief vacation; 
she forgot to be subtle and apparently carefree, and took 
no pains to conceal her troubles. When she awoke from 
her slumbers in the chair, where she spent the hours of 
sleep during the morning, she was a spectacularly wild 
woman, ready for any and all excitements and outre 
doings; as such, she conducted herself for all the party 
to see and hear. She was uncomfortable. She had had 
a rotten time, had had a dirty, rotten Irish trick played 
upon her in the person of that huge prize dumb bell, Brat- 
ten; all in all her grievances were mountainous, and 
Georgia wanted nothing so much as some opportunity for 
making every one else as uncomfortable and displeased 
as she herself was. Changing slightly, her feelings 
directed themselves toward her wanting to show them all 
that they would have some fast traveling if they kept 
abreast of her. 

There was presented, however, no opportunity, and 
every one seemed so stupidly satisfied and morning- 
afterish that at last, in sheer desperation, Georgia allowed 
her cunning to return to the helm; things began to happen 
immediately. Her very first move resulted in disaster to 
several of her companions of her own sex, and won her 
favor with every man present, excepting perhaps the Brat. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


183 


She suggested—with catlike directness to the widow 
and the dowager—that every one go for a swim to freshen 
up. “The party’s going to seed! A good swim will zip 
everybody up again! Who’s game?” But no other 
woman in the crowd was over-excited about such an idea, 
presenting various excuses and counter-proposals, but in 
the end, the men having joined with Georgia, the others 
had to fall into agreement or admit Georgia’s supreme 
dare-devilishness. So eventually they agreed to go— 
that is, all agreed except the widow and the dowager. 

The party went swimming—in what may be called the 
queerest assortment of bathing apparel that ever appeared 
on even a deserted beach or secluded pool. All the 
popular brands of men’s underwear were represented, 
and a wide variety of women’s unmentionables, from pas¬ 
sionate colored bloomers and dainty chemises to mono- 
grammed linen pillow cases, inverted and with leg-holes 
cut out. A casual observer might have called them a 
wild-looking class in aesthetic dancing—some observers 
would undoubtedly have made a complaint to the police. 
But there were no observers, and the lone policeman of 
the near-by village had no cause to suspect that such 
things were going on in his district. 

Fortunately, or, as it seemed later, unfortunately, it 
was a very hot day, such a one as the Lord very seldom 
pleases to grant to the New England coast in late spring. 
The sky was clear and the sun was sending down relent¬ 
lessly wave after wave of heat. The day was really 
ideal for swimming, the early chill of the water notwith¬ 
standing. 

As Georgia promised, it was very freshening, just the 
panacea for their ills. Spirits revived, the party began 
to come to its old liveliness again. Martin brought a 
bottle from the house and a few drinks were had, to make 
the water warmer. One thing led to another, until finally, 
when spirits appeared generally congenial again, Georgia 
offered another suggestion, saying, “How in the world 
can we get dressed when we go out? I’m not going to run 


184 


WILD ASSES 


around with nothing but a dress on!” She was speak¬ 
ing to the manicurist, who happened at the moment to be 
thinking about her job and some necessary excuses for 
not showing up on a Monday morning. Georgia, how¬ 
ever, was insistent, continuing, “Are you game to take off 
your clothes with me? We can send the fellows back 
to the house and then put our clothes on the sand to 
dry! Are you game?” 

“Sure!” answered the manicurist, coming suddenly 
back to the business of the moment. “I’d just as soon!” 

“Count me in, too!” called the physical culturist, who 
had been listening. “This chicken craves freedom and 
liberty! Take my clothes—I want to be free!” Her 
clothes at that moment consisted of the inverted pillow 
case, alluded to above. 

When the matter was presented to the fellows, a chorus 
of encouragement was the answer. “But,” objected Brock, 
wh^se lack of two legs was no hindrance to movement 
through the water but necessitated some difficult hopping 
or being carried on land, “why the devil do we have to 
clear out? I’ll hide my eyes if you are all so modest 
as all that!” 

“Sure,” Riley joined him, “you girls don’t need to 
stand on any false modesty around here! We’ve all prob¬ 
ably seen much better and more beautiful bodies than 
yours anyway!” The laugh was not relished by the 
ladies, who continued urging that the men depart and 
leave them to the work of drying their clothes. 

At last when the male protectors agreed to go into the 
house the project was carried out. This done, that was 
done, and Father Neptune probably chuckled at the sight 
of these human mermaids trying to keep themselves 
hidden in his waves, which proved to be rather difficult 
unless one stayed in water over her head at all times. 

Soon the men reappeared, a grotesque crew, waving 
bottles and glasses like the shipwrecked sailors who lost 
their rations but saved their rum and so were happy. 
Coming down upon the beach, they began successfully to 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 185 

devise ways of getting drinks to the submerged mer¬ 
maids. 

The water seemed warmer now. The sunshine was 
marvelous. The swimming was great sport, enjoyed by 
all. The drying clothes were forgotten for a while, in 
all the excitement which sent shouts and shrill laughs 
echoing around the cove; the clothes were quite forgotten, 
by all but one, that one being Georgia, the she-devil, who 
reminded Maunie of them and in such words that when 
Maunie went to the house for another bottle—at any 
rate, when the clothes were remembered, they were not to 
be found! 

A blazing hot sun and chilly, cold water! Regardless 
of Brock’s “Gin’s the stuff for that!” tender shoulders 
and backs were as tender as skin ever is under the 
steady rays that pour down from Old Sol. Eventually, 
of course, the clothes were found and returned, but not 
before the party, one and all, including the partly sati¬ 
ated Georgia, had become possessed of a sunburn over 
the upper parts of their shoulders that was to give every 
one of them many a painful moment when the bums 
began to draw and crack. 

A pretty party—well planned and well carried out, 
except in the two matters which had been expected to 
afford enjoyment to the company. It was a party long 
remembered and still discussed, variously with pride 
and shame. Even Georgia at the end declared it a “whiz 
—even unto the sunburn!” Whereupon she indulged in 
a justified laugh at others’ expense. The sunburn, as she 
expected, had several after-effects—some of the girls had 
to wear painlessly low-necked dresses for the following 
few days, and others, whose parents and friends were 
more apt to be inquisitive and curious, wore protectively 
extra high-necked frocks until the burn on necks and 
shoulders had either peeled or mellowed into presentably 
smooth tan. 

In one case—Georgia would have relished this result 
of her evil genius—such precautions led an inquisitive 


186 


WILD ASSES 


father to wonder and demand explanations, which ex¬ 
planations somehow (the girl, in reporting the develop¬ 
ments, swore that she had mentioned no names or places) 
resulted in the doors of that father’s house being forever 
barred to one who had previously been a good friend of 
the family. His name was Brocker, and the girl in ques¬ 
tion he had invited to the party for another fellow, of 
whom he was not extraordinarily fond. 

“That’s the way it goes, Brock,” was Riley’s sympa¬ 
thetic comment upon the matter when Brock gave the 
victim’s version of the trouble. 

“Yes, but Cripes! I never even laid hands on that girl 
the whole time; and I didn’t tell her to go swimming and 
get all burned up like an over-fried egg!” Brock was 
determined to ease his conscience, at least. 

Riley eased it for him by agreeing in toto. “Right, of 
course, but,” he said, “you can’t blame her old man 
either, when he knew she was asked to go by you.” He 
stopped, after a moment continuing, “It’s just the way 
things go. You never can tell what’s going to happen or 
how. Look at Brat! Had the prettiest and snappiest 
number in the bunch, but the damned fool left her to go 
and chew the rag with a mothering old dowager! We all 
thought we’d have a lot of good sport watching him slide, 
but the best he did was just stick along and take care of 
us, just as he said he would.” Riley had been much dis¬ 
appointed, but he smiled at the recollection of Brat’s 
part in the party. 

“And look at Somerford!” he exclaimed. “I’d swear 
he was never out with a woman before in his life, and 
what happened? Why, every woman in the party was 
complaining of that damned fool’s attention—that should 
have been fun, but it wasn’t. It was pitiable to me, 
after a while. I really felt sorry for the poor kid, with 
every woman he approached trying to take a fall out 
of him!” Brock smiled at this recollection, but Riley 
continued, “and that swimming business! That was 
Georgia’s idea, you know; she was sore at Brat and down 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


187 


on the party and that was her way of getting back. But 
she didn’t get back at Brat—while we were all swimming 
and freezing the dowager tied him right around her 
finger, and now he’s going on a week-end in Maine with 
her. And look at me! I didn’t get any more out of it 
all than you; a hell of a headache and a mess at the 
Dean’s office, probably, because the Doc refused to sign 
me off for the classes I missed Monday and Tuesday! 
You birds were lucky—you all looked sick enough to 
miss classes, so he signed you off for sickness; but me, 
I’m penalized for not looking sick! But, then—it’s just 
the way things go—you never can tell by the whiff nor 
smell what the brew will really be!” 

“Well, I’m off those damned fool parties!” Brock’s 
voice carried conviction. “I’m off ’em for life! They’re 
usually false alarms and get us nothing but trouble!” 
Brock learned lessons frequently and regularly, and for¬ 
got them as regularly. 

This conversation took place while Brock and Riley 
walked down the Avenue toward the subway rotunda. 
Riley was going into Boston to seek out a physician who 
would be kind enough, for a consideration, to write a let¬ 
ter to the college doctor saying that one Thomas F. Riley 
had been under his care for the past four days and had 
been advised to forego all activities which might interfere 
with his taking a complete rest. Brock left him at the 
subway and plodded his one-legged way to a conference 
with an eminent old professor of zoology whom Brock had 
to convince of his own (Brock’s) profound knowledge 
of how fruit-flies breed, how they reproduce their kind, 
and how the gametes and zygotes and unit characters are 
distributed in the progeny even unto the fourth and fifth 
generation—all of which Brock knew. 

The wild party at the beach was soon past history, 
done and gone; but the effects and results of that jambo¬ 
ree were not all so quickly evident. It seems to be a fact 
that no incident in life, however trivial, can be entirely 
divorced from cause or effect; seemingly inconsequential 


188 


WILD ASSES 


happenings as well as tremendous events invariably result 
in some chain of effects. To some individuals these 
effects contribute to and are “learning” and knowledge, 
to others they may be but colorless and effectless inci¬ 
dents, experiences. In this case, the party, which was 
thought of by all as a closed event, had many chains of 
consequences, not the least of which concerned the edu¬ 
cation of the two guests of honor at the party, Brat and 
Somerford. Both were to learn that such bits of a young 
man’s education are invariably not Melchizedekian 
affairs, without parentage and without progeny. 

Some results were not long in becoming apparent. 
Dora, who had been excluded from the party by clever 
trickery on Brock’s part, made his life miserable for some 
time after because from his appearance the next day she 
was certain that he had been on some kind of a j amboree, 
and his continued denial of any guilt of that kind only 
served to heighten her indignation. Brock endured her 
scathing remarks for some time, but when she kept on 
harping on the matter without giving any indications of 
an intention to forget about it, Brock’s grudges began to 
grow and a vague determination began to crystallize in 
his mind—he would get rid of this woman, if he had to 
hang for it! 

Another consequence appearing immediately was con¬ 
cerned with the Brat. His change from slavery to habit to 
slavery to indecision had really been responsible for his 
consenting to joining the crowd on this party. Now, in 
consequence of that weakening, he was more than ever 
unable to ply a straight course, for the dowager who had 
succeeded in fascinating him by virtue of her more 
mature serenity and more sensible attitude toward him, 
had insisted that he accompany her to Maine over the 
succeeding week-end. 

“Oh, you must come with us,” she had said many times. 
“It will be a lovely ride, up into the woods—really, a 
wonderful place! I know you will enjoy it more than 
you can imagine!” 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


189 


Brat had declined at first, although he had to admit 
honestly that he would like to go. Before the Yale game 
he would not have admitted that he wanted to go or could 
possibly go—he would have said at once that he had 
other engagements which absolutely prevented his getting 
away from Cambridge. But he was weakening, and the 
dowager was so enthusiastic over his coming that he 
finally agreed to go. 

But after thus accepting her invitation, he was again at 
a loss to know whether to go or not. He had not forgot¬ 
ten Ellen, but he eased his conscience by considering the 
fact that all his friends, even when engaged, chased out 
on a wild party now and then—he argued thus to himself 
about being on Riley’s beach party. As to going to 
Maine with the dowager, well—surely that could not be 
construed as playing unfair; she was at least ten years 
older than he—couldn’t be compared with Ellen. 

Thinking over the whole matter, he decided that he 
might as well go. 

Then he recalled the news which had just come to him 
the night before that memorable crap game in his study 
—that Virginia and Jud Lee were very much and finally, 
definitely estranged. That Saturday afternoon he had 
received a letter from Ellen, with the result that this news 
had disturbed him not so much, but now, his attitude 
again wavering on account of this party and by virtue of 
the dowager’s maternal charms and her invitation—well 
—“Oh, heck—what’s the use!” summed up his feelings. 
Very much a slave to indecision. 

“To Love Her was a Liberal Education” 

—Steele: Toiler (No. 49). 

Many a wild oat has been sown by an unwilling hand, 
provided that- 

So far in his life, Brat had been a stupidly sturdy Joseph 
Andrews, equal to if not surpassing that hero of Field¬ 
ing’s burlesque in virtuous immunity from any and all 



190 


WILD ASSES 


advances of the fair sex. He had sedulously avoided any 
courtship with temptation during his three years in Cam¬ 
bridge—not for want of convenient times and places for 
dissipation, but merely because the whole business of 
chasing after girls, whether they be decent and nice, 
dizzy and teasing, or wild and immoral, never appeared 
to be worth the candle. He had been satisfied to accept 
the arrangement which existed between himself and 
Ellen, and had proceeded about his education with the 
idea that therein lay the sum and substance of his desires, 
in so far as the weaker sex was concerned. The truth was 
that temptation had never occurred to him in any attract¬ 
ive or desirable form sufficiently powerful to disrupt even 
for a few fatal moments the machinery of his virtuousness 
which habit had so well developed in him. As a mamma’s 
boy with an automatically functioning mental machinery, 
his habits had never comprehended any interest in or 
curiosity about storklessly-delivered infants or related 
points of biological interest, with the most of which the 
normal boy manages somehow to become acquainted. 
His education on the formal side had been a process of 
absorbing whatever was offered him, acting as he was 
advised to act, seeking what he was told to seek. In con¬ 
sequence, his education on the other side had been sadly 
neglected, though apparently he was little the worse off 
for this having been the case. 

He had been sought and pursued after the common 
fashion of all college heroes who have been blessed with 
better than common appearance. He had met women of 
various kinds and types, with varied interests and varied 
points of possible contact. He had had opportunities 
aplenty to learn about women, yet he had embraced none 
of these opportunities; he responded to none of the garden 
variety of stimuli. In fact, if he had thought about the 
matter—which he undoubtedly had not—he might have 
realized that only one from all the multitude of females, 
pulchritudinous and otherwise, could really have aroused 
any real responsive feelings in him. Virginia, with her 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


191 


petitely sweet but inquisitively vivacious way of treating 
him, alone could have attracted this virgo masculinus 
from his routine and ideals. Almost inexplicably, little 
Virginia had by her efforts succeeded in getting under his 
alligator skin to such an extent at their first meeting that 
Brat’s feelings were quite pleasantly tangled, so that he 
appeared to her even more bafflingly immobile and stolid 
than he actually was. Truly, if the opportunity had been 
offered for Virginia to pursue her advantage at the time, 
she might have ruined him utterly—or redeemed him, as 
some would say. However that might have been, that 
avenue of progress and education was, by the combina¬ 
tion of circumstances, prematurely closed, for Brat, of 
course, refused to take the initiative toward further 
acquaintance, and even when Virginia had an opportunity 
to carry on her attack upon his fortifications, he had 
refused to cooperate. Since that time at the restaurant, 
which was in snowy early February, Brat had on two 
occasions seen her at a distance, once on the street leading 
down to the Stadium and again in the stands at a baseball 
game. Aside from these two times, they really saw no 
more of one another, and in consequence their budding 
friendship had no chance to bloom. 

Brat still recalled with pleasure (and shame?) Vir¬ 
ginia’s features and ways, and the image of her kept quite 
inexcusably bobbing up before his eyes during the weeks 
following their meeting. Even during those days follow¬ 
ing the party at the beach house, his mind insisted upon 
turning to that image. Indeed, whenever he tried to 
consider whether or not he should go on the proposed 
week-end trip with the dowager, his considerations were 
confused by this image of a smiling, teasing Virginia 
insisting upon being considered too. The reason for this 
probably lay in the fact that the rumor of Virginia’s break 
with her man, Jud Lee, had come to Brat’s ears, and 
really was having some effect upon him. 

All of which confusion in mind, being unusual, quite 
disarranged his plans so that by Friday afternon he had 


192 


WILD ASSES 


decided to send his regrets to the dowager. Having de¬ 
cided this, he wondered how best to do the deed and, as 
usual, turned to Riley for help. But Riley did not at once 
appear, and when he did, he came with the latest rumor— 
an authentic report that Virginia and Lee were again 
together. This bit of news brought forth for the most 
part uninterested comments as to the two parties con¬ 
cerned, but little else. No one seemed to care greatly 
whom or when either of them married, although “it surely 
is tough,” as Brock put it, “the way these athletes fall 
into a lot of money through light-headed girls.” 

The only one present who made no comment of this 
or any other kind was Brat, and he was also the only 
one present who took the matter seriously—this for some 
quite indefinable reason, the whole reaction being notable 
as an instance in proof against the claims of psycholo¬ 
gists that the individual’s conduct under any set of cir¬ 
cumstances can be predicted. It was most unusual for 
Brat to be affected by news or incidents of any kind, yet 
the announcement which Riley brought was sufficient 
to disturb his customary calm—and this in view of the 
fact that he had been absolutely rude to her at their 
last meeting, and had been trying earnestly to avoid seeing 
her again under any circumstances. 

At any rate, Riley’s advice was not requested in the 
matter of sending regrets to the dowager, and she and 
Brat met according to their previous plan. Her car, 
driven by a sleek, well-dressed individual whom Brat had 
never seen before, called for him at five o’clock, took 
him to her apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, and 
then proceeded on the way to Maine. 

Up the Newburyport Turnpike, through Portsmouth, 
past York and Old Orchard, through Kennebunk and 
Portland—six hours of commonplace talk about the 
scenery and the weather, before they pulled up before 
a plain looking camp in a woods at the head of a small 
lake cove, somewhere, as Brat learned, near Augusta. 
Brat could not have said whether he was enjoying it all 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


193 


or not, for somehow, in spite of Virginia’s image, he 
liked this woman who was so meticulously careful and 
primly attractive in her dress and manner, but so con¬ 
fidently informal toward him. Then, too, from what he 
was told, the party in prospect was to be rather cozy and 
exclusive. In truth, he felt peculiarly uneasy and at 
the same time pleased with the prospect. 

Riley would have said that he was anticipating some 
pleasure—which, Riley would also have said, probably 
would not please him half so much when it materialized, 
if it did. 

The party was cozy and exclusive. Complete, it 
included besides the two, a man of about thirty-five who 
looked the part of an omniscient salesman, with the 
marks of the beast all over him; his wife, a few years 
younger, who acted and talked as if she feared death 
would overtake her before she had tasted of all the joys 
and thrills of existence; and the dowager’s chauffeur, 
whose demeanor and manner were anything but ser- 
vantesque, for he joined them as an equal in everything. 
The dowager treated him with curious respect and feeling, 
and the other couple were so friendly and chummy with 
him that Brat accepted at once the dowager’s explanation 
that “Charlie” was an old friend of them all, who drove 
for her occasionally just for want of something to do. 
If Riley had been in Brat’s shoes, he would have accepted 
this not so quickly; instead he would have noticed with 
growing suspicion the way in which the dowager with 
an air of expectancy always leaned upon Charlie for 
advice and assistance, and he would have noted the per¬ 
functory, half-reluctant manner in which Charlie catered 
to her and jollied her with sly flattery and risque sug¬ 
gestions. But Brat not being a Riley, these things escaped 
him, as did most untoward or suspicious incidents in his 
life. 

After a few drinks and a light lunch—it was now past 
one o’clock—they all sat about the rustic table in the 
kitchen, the lapses in the conversation indicating one of 


194 


WILD ASSES 


those situations in which every one seems to be waiting 
for something to happen, or for some one to suggest the 
obviously logical thing to do—retire. The expected sug¬ 
gestion did not occur to Brat, and the remarks of the 
others regarding “romantic moons,” “haunted bedrooms,” 
and the “state law against sleeping in bed” failed to call 
forth any action in that direction. 

At last Charlie started the old music box in the dining 
room, picked out a lively fox-trot and led the dowager 
out for a dance, during which he worked over-hard while 
she kept up a line of happy chatter with the others in 
the kitchen. Afterwards, Brat danced with her; she clung 
like wistaria and contrived to make her partner respond 
in kind. Charlie put on another record, but Brat made 
no move toward having another dance, so Charlie, who 
probably decided that a little of this dancing with the 
dowager went a long way, let the music box run down and 
gave notice of his purpose to retire forthwith. 

The married couple signified their intention of retiring 
also, and with much talking and laughing the three began 
to collect lights and bags preparatory to adjourning to 
the upstairs. Brat thought this a cue for him to move 
too, and remarked to that effect, but his companion, who 
was sitting ever so closely and warmly beside him now, 
negatived the idea by suggesting that they wait until the 
others had gone up. 

The minutes dragged on, and the sounds from above 
became more infrequent and dim, until at last it was 
so quiet that the two in the kitchen were talking in whis¬ 
pers in order not to startle themselves by the sound of 
their voices. Now and then the woman stroked his 
hair and trailed her fingers carelessly down and around 
his neck and shoulders. Her hair was against his cheek, 
her head resting in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. 
She snuggled closer. After a little she whispered again, 
to tell him how wonderfully big and strong he was, 
so much a man in every way, so adorable! Brat was 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


195 


experiencing some of that anticipatory curiosity of which 
he had heard Riley speak so often. 

The dim light made queer little shadows over the 
walls and ceiling. The whole atmosphere of the place 
was seductive, bewitching. But Brat merely felt this 
vaguely and did not act. The woman’s attitude became 
more and more plainly inviting, for this big giant of a 
man, who looked so masterfully strong and overpowering, 
continued throughout to make none of the natural moves 
which she had learned to expect from men. 

Brat never could have explained how they happened 
to go into the living room. It was chilly there, but 
Brat did not mind. There was a long, low lounge of 
a sturdy, rustic type, and upon this, bewildered and 
strangely entranced, he found himself. For perhaps the 
first time in his life he was filled with an impulsive desire 
to do something—he did not know exactly what he should 
do, or what he wanted to do, but he had heard enough 
tales and yarns to have a hazy idea of certain steps that 
one should take in such a situation. 

Riley could have warned Brat of what he could expect 
to find, but Riley had quite concluded that there was 
no danger of Brat’s ever needing to know such things, 
since his curiosity was impossibly beyond all arousing. 
Consequently he was quite unprepared for the develop¬ 
ments which confronted him in accumulating effectiveness. 

The dowager was, as Riley would have put it, too 
comely to be true; she was pretty, indeed attractive, in 
a quiet, subdued way; her appearance, from her closely 
dressed hair to her trim little ankles, was consistently 
agreeable and pleasing. Anything detracting from this 
consistency of apparent beauty was entirely ignored by 
Brat. He had not even stopped to consider the matter. 
There on the lounge in the dark living room of the quiet, 
romantically inspiring camp, he was so overwrought as 
to be beyond considerations of any kind. 

Many a wild oat has been sown by an unwilling hand— 
provided that the unwilling hand lapses into willingness! 


196 


WILD ASSES 


He suddenly came to realize how hot and stuffy the 
room was—close and unventilated—almost insufferable! 
Funny how loose and scraggly her beautiful hair seemed 
—it had always seemed so thick and fluffy! Lord, but it 
was hot! The poor woman must be overcome with it! 
She would not even speak—her so fresh and healthy 
colored cheeks, what the devil made them so pasty and 
sticky?—makeup, he concluded; smelled more of perspir¬ 
ation than of lilac blossoms- 

Funny he should think of Virginia then—and of Ellen! 
Gad, he couldn’t imagine Ellen’s ever being like that! 
he could even smile mentally at the thought of such 
a picture! 

His partner lay there, wanting nothing so much as to 
have his strong arms around her and to feel his breath 
uneven against her neck and face—her kisses, so long and 
so lingering, pleasant for the moment, but somehow 
revolting, unclean; her lips seemed so loose, flabby, 
bloodless, lifeless—it was so damned artificial—this pas¬ 
sionate device wasn’t real, it couldn’t be; it was sicken¬ 
ing, disgusting, with the whiskey of her breath- 

He was beginning to collect his senses now, but she 
grew more and more ardent. His hand, which had been 
at her waist, came suddenly up toward her shoulders, 
and he suffered the sickening discovery that all things 
were not what they had seemed—apparently full and 
girlish, actually flat and limp. To him it seemed that 
everything he touched was changed, transformed, thrown 
up to him in a new light; none of the freshness and 
desirableness there now! Even those trim little ankles 
belied the grossness which they supported. He had been 
led to expect the well knit, sturdy, altogether intriguing 
muscularity of youth! 

“You ought to take more exercise!” he muttered, for 
want of comment. He became more and more reluctant, 
receded further from her—her whole being, her ways, her 
talk, her absolute vulgarity and uncaring boldness—she 
was so utterly disgusting and revolting! 




TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


197 


The Devil makes mischief for idle hands to do, pro¬ 
vided that the idle hands were— Brat’s hands were 
not; they were busy in an endeavor to extricate himself 
from her suffocating embrace, for the illusion conse¬ 
quent to his first wild impulses had been rudely shattered, 
and was now superseded by a disillusion a hundredfold 
more effective, more commanding. Brat’s hands were 
not idle, nor his mind—he was again remembering Ellen, 
and Virginia. . . . 

So this was Woman, the thing men live by, for and 
after! And he had been curious about this! Why the 
hell hadn’t he stayed in Cambridge where he belonged! 
He left her and went out into the lighted kitchen, where 
she soon joined him. 

“Lose interest so soon, Brat dear?” she whispered with 
a smile which showed little red blotches under her eyes. 
He noticed that she looked almost, but not quite, so 
repulsively featured as he had been imagining her. She 
made several excuses, about her hair and about “look¬ 
ing a wreck,” and insisted upon turning down the light 
for her own peace of mind. 

Brat was now his hard-shelled self again, and observing 
this and other tactics impatiently, vaguely understood 
that she wanted to return to the couch in the living room. 
She kept up the queer little smile which had accom¬ 
panied her first comment and Brat wondered vaguely as 
to the cause of the smile. Shortly, after a few moments 
of inaction, she remarked, still smiling, that they might 
as well go to bed, and he agreed, still wondering about 
the smile. So they went to bed, but her smile left her 
face when, at the top of the stairs, he coolly wished her 
good night and turned into the room which he had been 
told would be his. 

He undressed, and in pajamas stole forth to the bath¬ 
room for the nightly ablutions with soap and tooth 
powder which his mother had taught him. Some ten 
minutes later he crept softly to his room and to bed. 
He slept well; his conscience was perfectly clear, and 


198 


WILD ASSES 


he felt no regret. But from that night henceforth he 
was certain that he would never let women trouble him 
again; he had even less use for them than he had before. 
He was cured, fortunately without ever having been sick. 

They stayed at the camp until Sunday evening, Brat 
remaining for the simple reason that he did not know 
how to get away gracefully. The dowager was particu¬ 
larly nice to him at all times, and the others tried not 
to be strange or distant towards him, but the atmosphere 
of the party changed noticeably despite their efforts. 
Charlie even went so far, under the influence of a heavy 
load of drinks, as to advise Brat not to be foolish about 
“the old girl! She’ll treat you right and look after 
you financially if you play the game with her! Kid her 
along—she won’t hurt you!” From which advice Brat 
deduced the conclusion that the others somehow were 
aware of the fact that he was not playing the game with 
the dowager and he felt a sort of pride in the fact. 
Little wonder then that the party slowed up considerably; 
as Riley would have said, “One monkey-wrench is usually 
sufficient to cramp the digestion.” 

Charlie’s advice was lost on Brat. He was cured. 
Although the term “cake eater” was, chiefly because of 
Riley’s many tirades on the subject, anathema to him, 
Brat smiled to himself at the picture of him, the Brat, 
playing the role of cake eater to a dowager! 

Riley would have remarked this as progress in Brat’s 
education—that is, the fact that he could smile was in 
his favor. Altogether Brat learned about women from 
the dowager, but this primary stage of his sexual educa¬ 
tion was such as to be deplored, for this experience 
resulted in changing his apathy to antipathy. 

Matters of Opinion 

There would seem to be some divine law which applies 
universally to human beings and makes the said human 
beings fail to appreciate what they have until they have 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


199 


lost it. Especially in the period just after the War has 
this divine law been in operation, and it has been so 
generally and so thoroughly respected that the curse of 
the time has been the consequent hungering after unpos¬ 
sessed things, while the things and people in one’s con¬ 
trol or possession or bonds of friendship and love go 
discounted and neglected. No one enjoys or is satis¬ 
fied with his own world—he thinks with covetous desire 
of all that he might have, never appreciating what he 
has. This kind of discontent passes under various clas¬ 
sifications and terms; it is called ambition, when it brings 
about some material progress which the world at large 
takes to be good work; it is called greed and covetous¬ 
ness, when it results in the individual’s inadvertently 
taking things which in the eyes of the world at large he 
should not take; it is called envy or jealousy when 
it makes the individual act in an unhappy and uncon¬ 
genial manner when looking upon the blessings which 
others seem to possess; it is called “climbing” in respect 
to one’s having designs upon the occupants of the rungs 
of the social ladder; it is called avarice, gluttony, lust, 
hunger and thirst after material things, malicious selfish¬ 
ness—the individual’s motives are taken as the final 
determinants of the classification: if he acts out of what 
superficially appears to be a noble impulse to help 
others, the act is called by an honorable name; if the 
superficial consideration shows the motive to have been 
selfish, unreasonable, unsocial, the doer is dishonored 
by the resultant classification of his act. 

All of which has to do with this matter of appreciating 
the things we have before we lose them. Brat had always 
had the happy faculty of being neutral on all matters. 
He had no active sense of appreciation for either the 
things which he had or the things which he should have 
imagined; lacking imagination, this latter possibility was 
unnecessary. Proof of his having the common failing, 
however, lay in his inability to appreciate his girl from 
Dartonville: in his mind she existed as his future wife, 


200 


WILD ASSES 


and that was all there was to that! His little experi¬ 
ence with the dowager in the camp in the Maine woods 
served to bring him to at least a momentary sense of 
appreciation for Ellen, but it was merely momentary, and 
had passed long before he had arrived in Cambridge. 
As for Virginia- 

There was a case of appreciating something which he 

did not have- Riley would have remarked that this 

showed Brat as a human being, just like every one 
else, but Riley did not happen to think of this phase of 
the case. The fact was that Brat was in a bad stew 
because of Ellen and Virginia, and now on account of 
this foolish dowager who had so disgusted him. If she 
had done naught else, she did succeed in teaching Brat 
an awful lesson; he now was of half a mind to “be off 
women for life” because they were probably all just 
alike! But whenever he tried to come to that determin¬ 
ation, the vision of Virginia and the memory of Ellen 
upset his conclusions, and he was again a man in bondage 
to indecision. 

If, after his return from Maine, he could have taken 
Virginia in his arms, mauled her over in terrible fashion, 
literally let himself go to whatever limits of knowledge 
that little vivant might have permitted; if he could 
have gone to Virginia whole-heartedly and forgetful of 
Ellen, he might have gone through the ramifications of 
satisfying his curiosity, his desires, his unhealthy long¬ 
ings, and afterwards have been able to return and be com¬ 
pletely satisfied with and fully appreciative of his Ellen. 
For Virginia was to him a repressed desire: he wanted 
her and his wanting fed upon itself, its fires being also 
fed by “forbidden” elements in the case: he felt that 
he was not free to have anything to do with her—there¬ 
fore he wanted her the more; he suspected that she 
should not want to be with him—therefore he wanted her 
the more; his knowledge of her affairs did not permit him 
to know what she was doing or where she was doing it, 
his visions of her were recollective and indefinite in 




TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


201 


so far as the present was concerned—therefore he wanted 
her the more. In short, that was about the only occu¬ 
pation he had for several days: this wanting her the more 
and the more, for the various reasons suggested above. 
If he could have had her, he would probably have come 
before very long to discoveries equally as effective as 
lessons as those which he had arrived at in Maine, but 
he could not have her—so he continued to want her the 
more. 

That following Monday morning found him in Cam¬ 
bridge attending his classes as usual, none the worse but 
a little wiser for his experience in Maine. He did not 
relate his adventure to his roommates, but when they 
asked him about his trip he smiled and said, “Oh, had a 
good ride down and back! Wasn’t much there.” They 
had not the least suspicion that anything had gone wrong 
—knowing Brat they had no reason to suppose that their 
stalwart roommate had succumbed even momentarily to 
any woman’s charms. 

And there were other things to worry about, much 
more important than Brat’s trip to Maine. The Beau 
that day found himself swinging at the end of a long 
rope, a rope which was tied fast in the office of the 
Dean of Harvard College. He too had fallen because 
he did not appreciate the things which he had and had 
coveted the things which he had not. 

“Oh, damn, Damn, DAMN! Sacre damn bleu!” he 
broke out, in discussing his troubles with his room¬ 
mates. “My old man’ll break my neck when he hears 
of this! Kicked out of college for trying to bribe an 
instructor with a quart of liquor! Oh—HELL!” 

The others did not know just what to say. If there 
is one time in a fellow’s college life that is more awk¬ 
ward than any other, it is the time when one is confronted 
with the necessity of sympathising with a friend who 
has just been forcibly ejected from the college. There 
is little or nothing that can be said on such an occasion— 
Riley, Brock and Brat said it. 


202 


WILD ASSES 


“What’ll I do, Tom? What’ll I do?” the Beau 
cried, looking with appealing eyes at the Irishman, who 
appeared to be wrapped in deep thought over his 
problems. 

“Nothin’ you can do, Beau,” he replied, lifelessly. 
Riley had sympathized, when the news first came in, by 
an explosion of profanity and universal blasphemy, so 
strong and genuine that his sympathy thus extended made 
up for whatever was not extended by Brock and Brat. 
“Nothin’ to do, but wait till you hear definitely that 
you’re out.” 

He referred to the fact that the Administration Board 
of the College would meet on Tuesday and that the 
Beau’s fate would be definitely settled then. 

“Oh—hell!” the Beau had to talk; he would have 
broken down completely, if he could not have exploded 
verbally. “The whole point is that they’re kicking me 
out for something I didn’t do—and they don’t seem to 
care a damn about me! Why, the Dean told me himself 
that he didn’t think I had any business in College—said I 
didn’t appreciate the opportunities that have been given 
me here—that I conducted myself not as a student 
should—that I— Why, dammit, he’s crazy!” He stated 
his final conclusion as if it were self-evidently true. 

“No doubt he is,” agreed Riley. “But—how about the 
bootlegging? You know what happened to the birds in 
New Hampshire after that fellow got killed! You know 
what they’ve been doing about students peddling hooch 
around, and you know they’re watching everything 
around the Square like a bunch of hawks!” 

“But—but—BUT!” the French Canadian could hardly 
speak. “That’s the idea—they’re booting me on this 
bribery charge, not on any bootlegging complaint or 
suspicion—and I swear to God I never bribed that 
instructor-” 

“No—because he was too good a fellow to take advan¬ 
tage of it!” This from Brock. 

“No sir!—By God, I’ll take my punishment for any- 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


203 


thing I get caught at, for anything I do—hut I didn’t 
do this! Oh—anyway, what I say is this: I admit that 
I wasted my Freshman and Sophomore years, but I did 
come to realize what and how much this damned old 
college meant when the old man’s financial troubles made 
it look as if I wouldn’t get to come back this year! I’ve 
been appreciating the place ever since! And I’ve studied, 
just as hard as the next one, to prove that I really wanted 
to stick! Why, I’m just beginning to get something out 
of this place—and here they come along and throw me 
the hell out, just for trying!” 

“Well, it’s damned tough, Beau! And I wish there were 
some way we could help you, but honestly I don’t know 
a damned soul with any influence over there at the College 
office—and, besides, I’m afraid they’ve got some dope on 
you for bootlegging, in which case you’d best let well 
enough alone and clear out; they will keep quiet about 
whatever it is then! Otherwise it may get into the news¬ 
papers, and then you would be cooked!” 

“But, it isn’t fair—there’s no justice in that! And 
anyway I haven’t sold a hell of a lot of liquor around 
here! And I wouldn’t have sold that if I hadn’t needed 
the money to pay my bills and get along. Why, Cripes 
Almighty, if I wanted to bootleg as a profession, I 
wouldn’t hang around and study like a damned fool all 
the time, would I?” The Beau was convinced that 
the fates were against him, that he was being unjustly 
handled by the powers that were. 

“But they don’t know all that,” answered Riley, “and 
besides, even if they did, it wouldn’t make any difference 
—they won’t let you stay here if you’re selling hooch, 
no matter how good a student you are or how much you’ve 
sacrificed to stay here! They can and will do anything 
they please about you—you are just a little drop in their 
bucket of worries; they’re looking out for the prestige 
and good name of Fair Harvard—they don’t care a damn 
about you!” 

“And it says in the Bible,” began Brock, musing, 


204 


WILD ASSES 


“that the Lord worried more about the one who went 
astray than he did about all the ninety and nine that 
stayed in the fold!” Brock smiled. 

“Well, that fold wasn’t Harvard College!” declared 
Riley. “Nor was it Yale, or Princeton, or Dartmouth, or 
Cornell, or any other big school with a prestige that has 
to be kept up, regardless of the individual. What the 
hell do a few of us poor damned individuals amount to 
compared with the sum total of this place’s productive¬ 
ness? Not a damned bit! They haven’t time to con¬ 
sider the potentialities of every piece of fleshy raw 
material that comes in here; if there’s enough defects to 
make the piece look rotten, they throw him away without 
any ado about it, and that’s all there is to it!” 

\ “Well, I leave it to you, Tom—” pleaded the Beau. 
“Ain’t it hell to—to—to sell your birthright for a mess 
of pottage and then have some damned fool take the 
pottage away from you?” This burst of poetic feeling 
from the Beau caused his roommates to look at him 
in wonder. 

“Of course, it’s tough, Beau! Cripes, I’m as sorry as 
hell; I’m not lecturing you—all I meant to say was 
that you might as well make up your mind to clear out 
and do it without trying to make a fuss, because they’ve 
made up their mind that they don’t want you here!” 
Riley was making an honest effort to show the Beau the 
error of his ways and the best escape, but the French 
Canadian hated to admit the justice of the situation. 

“Damn ’em! By-I don’t believe there’s a God in 

heaven! There’s no Christ! No justice! I wish some- 
body’d shoot me—the unluckiest sucker that ever lived! ” 

“Self pity,” Brock was thinking, but not saying. Brock’s 
reaction to the Beau’s breakdown was slow in coming. 
It seemed so strange to him that the Beau, one of the 
happiest, most carefree fellows he’d met, should be 
in such misery, so in need of sympathy and help—Brock 
knew how the Beau felt, but Brock had had but little ex¬ 
perience in helping others. Nevertheless it made him feel 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


205 


better to see another figure in distress and to feel that 
he, Brock, might be able to help him. 

Brat was at a loss to know what to say, and Riley’s talk¬ 
ing had more or less bewildered him, for he had never 
thought of Harvard College in that light before. For a 
moment he wondered if all that Riley suggested were true 
—but only for a moment, for Brat’s attitude of reverence 
and respect held no place for criticism, even of the mild 
kind which Riley suggested. 

“Well—we never appreciate how well off we are until 
something happens to us!” Riley continued to think 
aloud. “Scotty here probably never thought about how 
lucky he was with two legs until he lost one of them! 
And look at Brat—” Riley smiled and winked at Brock, 
“he’s got a perfectly nice girl at home, but he doesn’t < 
appreciate her because she’s always been his girl!—And J 
that’s the way it goes—no one ever appreciates anything 
until they lose it!” 

“Guess so,” mumbled the Beau, quieting down. 

“It’s a damned shame, Beau—tough as hell that you 
didn’t appreciate the place when you had a good allow¬ 
ance (but one never does, except the Picks and the Brats) 

—you could have gotten by this year on what little you 
had, but you probably would have been unhappy all 
year—you didn’t have to go in for selling hooch—you 
did it because you were afraid of what it would be like 
to have to go through the year without money enough 
to do whatever you pleased! Isn’t that a fact?” 

“Fear? Yeh—I suppose so,” was the lifeless answer. 

“But what’ll I do now? I’m broke right this minute! 
Got about two bucks to my name—can’t even go home!” 

“You don’t want to go home anyway; stay here and get 
into some other school as soon as possible!” 

“No—I’m going home, face the music and come back, 
try to get in here again—the dirty fools! I ought to tell 
’em to go to hell and go my way, but I won’t! And if 
I ever run across that pie-faced instructor that went up 
there and said I tried to bribe him with liquor, I’ll kill 


206 


WILD ASSES 


him as sure as my name is Louis Beauvais!” The Beau 
was on fire again; his thoughts once started on this line 
kept on and on throughout the evening and the next day. 
Late that afternoon he was informed by the clerk in the 
Dean’s office that the Administration Board had voted 
that his connection with the University be severed imme¬ 
diately “for the commission of an impropriety.” 

The Beau left town that night, without waiting for 
the official letter of dismissal from the Dean. He did 
not know until the very last minute that he could get 
away—on account of his barren purse; but when Brock, 
who had gone to Boston in the morning, returned, he very 
matter-of-factly handed the Beau a twenty-dollar bill, 
and told him to “forget it; just let us hear from you, 
Beau, and come back if you possibly can!” 

The Beau’s misfortune had got under Brock’s skin— 
the French Canadian, the jovial, good-hearted fellow of 
fair weather and foul, had been the very first individual 
whom Brock had had any opportunity for helping. It 
really did great good to Brock to see another man, a 
close friend, in trouble, and to be able, as he had 
been, to help that dear friend in some way. So it 
always goes that one man’s sorrow is, or may be, another 
man’s salvation. 

The round of routine went on its way, classes were 
attended, Brat had a part in a Hasty Pudding play, Riley 
busied himself with good and bad literature, Brock tried 
to coordinate his studies with his relations to Dora— 
both tempered by that annoying recollection of Ellen 
and her likeness to Dora. Time passed and the Final 
Exams hove in sight. 

Current Criticism 

The Final Exams were in full swing when Brat one 
day chanced to meet Virginia in Boston. She was driving 
a little sport roadster, an automotive study in cerulean 
blue, and was forced by a traffic stop to pull in at the 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


207 


curb on Tremont Street near the foot of the Common. 
As such things sometimes will happen, there before her 
eyes, standing within a few feet of her, was Brat, just 
starting from the curb to cross the street. As he stepped 
in front of her car, she gave the horn a vicious push 
and let out the clutch just enough to make the car spring 
suddenly forward. He jumped away and looked up 
with a scowl on his face; then he saw her. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bratten,” she chirped gaily. 
“Sorry I didn’t hit you!” 

Brat’s face lighted up with a grin, as he came over 
to the side of the car. “That’s a nice attitude!” he 
reproached. 

“Well—you deserve to be run over and utterly demol¬ 
ished,” Virginia declared, assuming a slight pout of 
judiciousness. “You are positively the most exasper¬ 
ating man I’ve ever known! Honestly, I shouldn’t even 
say ‘good afternoon’ to you, after the rude manner you’ve 
assumed toward me!” 

Brat laughed, chiefly because he could laugh more 
winningly than he could talk; his laughing therefore 
showed his intelligence, for the intelligently clever indi¬ 
vidual invariably puts his best foot forward. 

“Why don’t you like me?” Virginia demanded, her 
tone carrying a touch of regret and appeal. 

“Why—who said I don’t?” laughed Brat. 

She looked at him sternly. She really wanted to 
laugh; somehow she just knew that Brat did not stay 
away from her because he didn’t like her: such an idea 
would be absurd. “But you surely do not throw any fits 
of gladness or go into any convulsions of glee when you 
meet me! And you have refused more of my invitations 
than I can ever recall! Do you think that’s being 
friendly?” 

“Oh, now, Virginia—listen—you—say, I’d better run 
along before I get run over! The traffic’s going to move. 

I’ll-” 

“You’ll get right in here with me and come along!” 


208 


WILD ASSES 


Virginia ordered very severely, leaning across to open the 
door for him. Then, as he still hesitated, the traffic 
whistle sounded, cars began to move, she commanded 
again, “Hurry—before we’re arrested for blocking the 
traffic !” and Brat ran around the car and slid into the 
seat beside her. 

“Where we going?” 

“Well, I’m going to Dad’s office—then, I guess maybe 
you can take me to lunch somewhere; I haven’t eaten 
since a nine o’clock breakfast! Now, since you haven’t 
anything to do-” 

“Who said I didn’t have something to do?” 

“I did!” Virginia smiled. “Honestly, you’re almost 
as funny when you’re sober as .you were that night!” 
She laughed at the memory. “Anyway, we’ll go down 
and you can meet Dad, and maybe he’ll make you presi¬ 
dent of a corporation or something—Dad’s a peacherino: 
you’ll like him; he’s almost as funny as you are.” 

She ran on and on, talking so fast and about so many 
things and in such an impertinent fashion that poor Brat 
had to submit to all her demands and suggestions. 

“Now that you’re in my power, I’m going to make the 
best of the opportunity!” she explained, “for Heaven 
knows when I’ll see you again. For a man so popular, 
you can disappear and stay hidden better than anyone 
I’ve ever known!” 

Brat agreed that she seemed bent upon making the best 
of her opportunity. She took him to her father, toward 
whom she was even more impertinent and saucy. Old 
Man Jordan talked with Brat, seemed to be pleased with 
him, winked to him at Virginia’s very studied flatteries. 

Afterwards they went to lunch, in a little toy tea room 
on the Common side of Beacon Hill, where they spent 
most of the time in inane arguments regarding the paying 
of the huge check, which came to a little over two dollars, 
Virginia being very insistent that the whole affair was her 
party. 

Brat was completely her dog that afternoon. He quite 



TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


209 


forgot whatever errand had brought him into Boston. 
Virginia carried him all over town, stopping here and 
there to see some person “about something very impor¬ 
tant,” or to make some small purchases. Brat concluded 
that this must be her busy afternoon. 

“Oh, no, Brat dear—I’m a woman of exceeding business 
every day of the week! This is nothing compared to my 
usual program—I’m slowing up today just out of respect 
for you.” More laughter. More calling and shopping. 
Finally off for a ride out Commonwealth Avenue and 
around the Reservoir district. 

Virginia did most of the talking, but finally Brat 
managed to interpolate a few remarks in regard to the 
matter which had been uppermost in his mind since the 
day after their first meeting. 

“I don’t see much of Jud Lee these days,” he said, 
“What have you done—captured him, too? Got him 
hidden away somewhere? Fattening him up for the 
slaughter?” Brat’s facetiousness was so spontaneous and 
unusual that it was unbecoming, and Virginia was quick 
to take advantage of him by a few well directed remarks 
which concerned not Jud Lee but himself. 

“But you’re going to marry him, aren’t you?” he 
persisted. 

“Well—I don’t know, to be perfectly frank! What do 
you think? I have so many things to think of that I just 
forget poor Jud completely.” 

“Well, I don’t see—” he began, but she interrupted 
him. 

“No, you wouldn’t, Brat dear! You’ll never see any¬ 
thing if you live to be a hundred! Now, you’re much 
older than I, but I venture that I’ve seen much more than 
you!” More laughing. 

“My God!” he exploded in mock seriousness. “How 
in the dickens can anyone ever get any sense out of you?” 

“Easy, Brat dear! You want to know how Jud and I 
stand—but honestly you shouldn’t ask such a question, 
and vou know it! However, to ease your troubled spirit, 


210 


WILD ASSES 


lest you think you are compromising a married woman 
by this afternoon’s companionship, I’ll tell you frankly 
that you needn’t worry—that’s my lookout!” 

Brat wanted to know more definitely than this, but all 
his queries brought equally indefinite answers, and finally 
he submitted to her chatter and proceeded to be delighted 
for the remainder of the afternoon. She took him back to 
Cambridge, threatened to come after him unless she heard 
from him in a few days, and left him—and Brat was in 
a fine frame of mind to study for examinations. 

Several days later Riley, Hamilton and Brock were 
holding forth in a heated discussion of the many prob¬ 
lems and aspects of college life in general, when the 
Irishman, after declaring that “college athletics run the 
business of the country,” added, “and look at Brat—he 
saw Virginia Jordan about a week ago and she took him 
up to meet her old man; the old money-bags liked him— 
sent him a letter the next day to come and see him. Brat 
went in and was introduced to a friend of Jordan’s who 
has a kid coming up for entrance exams next fall—they 
want Brat to tutor the kid this summer! Now, can you 
tie that—the Brat tutoring! Cripes, he can barely pass 
in his courses here!” 

“Good joke on the kid’s father, I should say,” said 
Hamilton. 

“Joke, nothing!” declared the Irishman. “He’ll give 
that kid more than his money’s worth. He can show him 
not only a little about his studies, but also a lot about 
how to get along in college. The kid’ll like him because 
he’s a college athletic hero: he’ll listen to everything he 
says and will come down here next fall all primed to lick 
the world according to Hoyle! Oh, this athletics stuff 
pays princely rewards! Brat’s to get four hundred dol¬ 
lars for two months’ work with six weeks on the Cape!” 

“Lucky egg!” sighed Hamilton. 

“Lucky—not at all! No luck in that! Brat’s just 
played his cards right—just as they should be played. 
He plays the idea that you get out of college exactly 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


211 


what you put into it: if a man makes a success in college 
he ought to expect rewards, that’s the idea! And athletics 
invariably pay big dividends: look at all the soft summer 
jobs at excruciating pay! Look at the jobs they get when 
they graduate! Look at these newspaper j obs—and most 
of them can’t write worth a damn! Why, I know one 
chap who’s been working on one of the papers in town 
for five years, and in that time about seven or eight ath¬ 
letes have gone over him in promotion and pay. He’s 
not an athlete because he’s had to work his way through 
college, but these other birds get the gravy, just as if he 
deserved to be penalised because he had to work while 
they played football or baseball! American business 
is run by athletes—-and they are, all in all, the greatest 
salesmen the world has ever seen. They bring to their 
job a lot of popularity and publicity, and they have 
entree in innumerable places where the ordinary gradu¬ 
ating sheep can’t go, and they know the fine old art of 
handshaking as well as the art of working—some of them 
do, that is!” 

“They put a premium on these extra-curricular activi¬ 
ties!” agreed Brock. “They get the opportunities to pro¬ 
gress rapidly—the poor hard working scholar has to be 
content with a long, slow grind and a lot of polite kicks!” 

“But these athletes don’t seem to get very far, as a 
rule,” objected Hamilton. 

“Why—they ought to!” said Brock. “They have the 
opportunity, and they have had sufficient training in col¬ 
lege; they should, if they are any good at all, be able to 
fill a job very intelligently!” 

“Oh, it’s about fifty-fifty, I guess,” offered Riley. 
“There are about as many stultified and impossible hand¬ 
shaking bond salesmen and small-time business men as 
there are real business or professional successes. The 
point is that athletics pay because the man finds oppor¬ 
tunities much quicker than the grind does! And that 
isn’t a very healthy condition, if college amounts to any¬ 
thing other than an athletic club!” 


212 


WILD ASSES 


So the discussion went on, as so many such conversa¬ 
tions go, with a maximum of knocks and kicks and com¬ 
plaints about this, that and the other thing. In any 
college it is invariably true that no one is ever absolutely 
satisfied, there is always something to complain of, either 
of the way the athletic teams are failing to do as well as 
they should, or the college authorities are acting so much 
like demagogues and unreasonable arbiters, or the in¬ 
structors are unreasonable in their assignments and unfair 
in their marking, or the fraternity system is ruining the 
school, or the college is getting filled up with babies and 
damned fool poets, or the eating conditions are a thing to 
shudder at, or the goodies never make the beds or sweep 
the rooms, or the college police are too two-faced and 
double-crossing and sneaking to be anything but unspeak¬ 
able gumshoes, or Professor So-and-So spends all his 
time with and over the co-eds (at Harvard, the Radcliffe 
girls) or the Jews are ruining the place, or the blue- 
bloods are too snobbish to be tolerated, or the college 
courses are too prep-schoolish and unpractical, or they 
are too materialistic and practical, or there’s too much 

red tape to allow any efficiency, or—or—or—or- 

There is always something to be discussed, some com¬ 
plaints to be made. No one is ever satisfied. A college 
is a hotbed of discontent, and Riley and Brock were after 
the fashion of arch-critics. 

This conversation took place on the day before the last 
exams, and it came to a stop when Riley suddenly remem¬ 
bered that he had to get some notes to study for his next 
day’s examination. Hamilton went to the library, and 
Brock walked along with Riley to the Tutoring School, 
where the latter purchased for the sum of three dollars 
a complete set of notes on the English Literature course, 
his exam. They walked back to the rooms, stopping for 
a drink at the College Pharm, and finally drifted into the 
room to find Brat there reading a letter, which, after a 
moment, he handed to Riley. The latter glanced at the 
contents and proceeded to read aloud, as follows: 



TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


213 


Boston, June 16. 

Brat, you heart-breaker, 

I said I should dog your steps if I did not hear from 
you—and I haven’t heard a word! Where have you 
been and why such neglect? Would it inconvenience 
you too much to let us hear from you once in a 
while? Please do! 

Dad has asked about you several times since you 
met. He liked you immensely—said you did not act 
like the usual college “rattle-brained parrot” (what¬ 
ever that means!). I hear you are going to tutor 
Freddy Parks this summer and will be at the Cape 
during August and September; if so, and you fail to 
come to see us, I shall never, never speak to you again. 

Of course we’d rather see you sooner—right away! 
That is, if you could arrange somehow to recall our 
address. Please, now, don’t be such an idiotic stranger! 

My best to all the crowd—trust you are being good! 
I’ll be expecting you. 

Va— 


Riley and Brock looked at each other, so much as to 
say, “Well, there you are!” But Brat appeared to be 
more affected by Virginia’s note. 

“When you going to see her, Brat?” inquired Brock, as 
if he considered it all settled that Brat was to call on the 
little lady immediately. 

“I don’t want to see her!” said Brat, trying to say it 
indifferently. 

Brock was on the point of asking for some reasons, hut 
Riley interrupted, as he handed the letter back to Brat, 
saying with much implied disgust, “You’re crazy, Brat! 
Go and see her, and don’t be so utterly foolish! You 
know damned well that Ellen doesn’t expect you to sit 
down here and twiddle your thumbs all day long! And 
you needn’t cross this girl off your list just because you 
think she’s supposed to be engaged to another man who 
is a speaking acquaintance of yours! Cripes sakes! she 


214 


WILD ASSES 


gives you every opportunity in the world. I think the 
kid’s in love with you!” 

Obstinately Brat held to his position, saying, in his 
usual colorless way, “Well, as long as she’s tied up, why 
should I break in? And if I fall in thick there—as I 
probably would—what the devil would I do next year 
when Ellen’s down here? Besides, I don’t like this unfair 
stuff anyway!” The matter was settled in his mind. 

“You should worry about the fair play part of it, you 
ape!” Riley was completely out of patience with his 
roommate’s impossible ideas. “It isn’t your fault if the 
girl keeps inviting you to call, it isn’t your fault if this 
Jud Lee can’t keep her occupied; if she wanted to stick 
to him, that’d be different, but very apparently she’d 
rather play around with you! Jud Lee doesn’t play any 
too fair with her, I guess—he’s chasing around with other 
women all the time; so why shouldn’t she see you?” 

“But—” Brat started to ask about Ellen’s part, but 
he stopped. It did no good to talk these things over with 
Riley, for Riley could explain away the moon and make 
you like the change. To him the fact that Virginia was 
obviously after a fashion engaged, and the fact that he 
himself was practically engaged, were sufficient to write 
“verboten” across any possibilities between himself and 
Virginia. His attitude was entirely typical and consist¬ 
ent. Whereas most men, as Riley said, relish playing 
around with some other man’s girl, he, Brat, was not even 
interested. That is, he tried to appear not even inter¬ 
ested—but the matter was complicated by the fact that 
little Virginia had so affected his sensibilities that he was 
actually beginning to realize that he could like her bet¬ 
ter than any girl whom he had ever met. He even con¬ 
templated the possibility of breaking with Ellen, but his 
mind stopped at the contemplation, and his will never 
even considered it for a moment. He was determined not 
to see Virginia, and he decided Freddy Parks’ summer 
place was too close to the Jordans’ for comfort; he 
guessed he’d better go home after Summer School. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


215 


While Riley was maligning Brat for his obsolete ideas 
and while Brat was paying no attention whatsoever to his 
maligning, the door burst open and in bounded F. Som- 
erford Hamilton again, with an armful of books and an 
air of hustle and bustle entirely out of proportion to the 
demands of the time. He had returned to study with 
Brock and Brat for their Psychology exam, which was 
to come the following morning. His chatter, somewhat 
subdued in the previous visit with Riley and Brock, was 
again of its usual gattling-gun variety, and rendered all 
other conversation impossible. He began at once to pre¬ 
pare for the business at hand; off came his coat; out 
came his necktie; up went his sleeves; the books were 
stacked neatly beside a comfortable chair—Somerford 
was ready to study. Meanwhile he talked. 

“Say, Brock—I just remembered-” he rattled out, 

“I only got a C on that last theme you gave me for 
English 6. Old Saint Pierre tore it all to hell; his criti¬ 
cism covered a whole half-page, the chief point being 
something about me profiting by spending more time on 
my work! Ha—that’s a joke! How long did it take you 
to write that, Brock?” 

“An hour, probably,” replied the other dryly. “What 
the devil does that old lady want, anyway?” 

“Can’t prove it by me. All I know is that I’ve got a 
good strong C in his course, and that I’ve got to get a C 
in this Psych or I’ll be lulued!” 

“Did you take Music, Frank?” asked Brat. 

“Yes, and I was one of the ones he flunked! Did you 
hear about that? The College Office told the prof 
the course was getting too easy; he’d have to toughen it 
up or cut it out; so what the hell does he do but flunk 
about half the men, just to prove that it isn’t a snap! 
Why, I know several fellows who studied like hell for 
that, and got D’s and E’s—and they won’t change the 
marks, either. One fellow’ll have to come to Summer 
School to get his degree, just on account of that damned 
foolish trick!” 



216 


WILD ASSES 


“Hm—nothing fair about that!” said Brat, as if it 
made no difference to him. “But how about this Psych?” 

The consensus of opinion seemed to be that the Psych 
exam would not be too hard for Frank to get a C, which 
being the case there need be no hurry about studying for 
it. The conversation moved to other subjects. 

“What did you get on that History thesis?” Riley asked 
of Brat. 

“Just a C,” answered the other. “What did you get, 
Somerford?” 

“Oh, I got a B on that. It was a darned good thesis, 
even if Brock did write it.” Frank thought this a good 
j oke. 

“Yesoos!” exclaimed Riley. “Can you beat that? 
Brat stayed up all night making up that thesis and 
gets a measly C on it—because he’s an athlete and C’s 
are all he needs. I don’t think they ever look at half of 
them, anyway! You don’t do a thing but copy twenty 
pages from one of Brock’s old theses, and you get a B 
plus! How the hell do you do it? What do you do— 
bribe these instructors? Donaldson only got a B on his 
thesis in that course, and he works like a nigger and 
knows the stuff from A to Z. What did Martin get?” 

“Oh, Martin—he got a C plus, and he’s sore as hell. 
He has a different instructor, you know, so he copied 
Brock’s thesis, too. But he only got a C on it. Pretty 
lucky, I guess!” 

“Lucky” was no word for describing Somerford, 
according to Riley, remembering the freakish way in 
which Frank had taken his money at dice a few months 
earlier. 

The conversation again shifted from topic to topic, as 
Somerford, the human newspaper, related all the scan¬ 
dals and rumors that he had lately heard. He talked on 
endlessly, it seemed to Brat, who paid little attention to 
him until he turned suddenly to remark, “Oh, by the way, 
Brat, I saw your little friend, Virginia, the other day. 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


217 


Keeripes, but she’s a rare little darling! And she knows 
it, too! Dresses as if she were going to do a nymphatic 
dance on the sands—gentlemen, she is built!” 

Brat’s eyes continued staring away from the speaker, 
but he was not inattentive to his words and when Somer- 
ford went on, saying, “I saw her at a dance and she was 
sure feelin’ good—between the scantiness of her clinging 
clothes and the inimitably effective way she dances, I 
could hardly dance with her! Whew, mama!” 

Brat turned and faced the speaker. “What the hell are 
you talking about, Somerford?” he demanded angrily. 

Fools invariably rush in where angels fear to tread. 
Before Riley or Brock could silence the human phono¬ 
graph, he had blurted out in his most blase air, “I’m 
talking about your friend, Virginia. She said she hadn’t 
seen much of you lately and I said, ‘Never mind, Va, I’ll 
tell Brat what he’s missing—he sure could see a great deal 
of you right now! And, Brat, you could have! I did!” 
His voice stopped—Brat’s long, hard fingers were around 
the foolish one’s neck; with one sweeping heave, Somer¬ 
ford was lifted from his chair and held at arm’s length. 

“You skunk! You’re not worth hitting or I’d kill 
you right now!” glared Brat. Somerford shook help¬ 
lessly, trying in vain to ease the hold on his neck. He 
was choking, blue in the face, but Brat continued, “If I 
hear of any dirt like that again, I will kill you! I mean 
it!” And he threw the lanky fool at Riley, who calmly 
stood him on his feet and told him, “For Pete’s sake, 
use your head and keep your trap shut!” 

Brat turned to Brock who suggested that they get busy 
on the Psych. Somerford was silent for some time, but 
finally offered Brat an apology and explanation (which 
Brat ignored) and joined them with the books and notes. 

Riley muttered something, gathered his notes together 
and adjourned to the bedroom to study, leaving Brock 
alone with his two pupils. Brock did the greater part of 
the work, outlining the course, answering questions, ex¬ 
plaining principles and emphasizing the points most 


218 


WILD ASSES 


likely to be covered in the examination. The entire eve¬ 
ning was thus spent, but at midnight much material yet 
remained to be covered. All three were tired and groggy, 
and Somerford was ready to quit. 

“I’ll take a chance on bulling anything that may come 
in that last section,” he declared. 

Brat, however, had no such “bull” to rely upon, and 
was therefore in favor of sticking to the end, so Somer¬ 
ford prepared to desert the two, Brock being willing to 
stick with Brat to insure his passing. 

Somerford put on his tie and coat, but while looking 
for his hat and collecting his books, he stopped long 
enough to inquire as to the difference between “analytic 
and synthetic processes,” a point which he had been told 
by a friend of an instructor would surely be on the 
examination. 

“Yes, you ought to know that,” Brock agreed sleepily. 
“Get this, Brat. Synthetic means building up from in¬ 
gredients or parts to the whole or conclusion or general¬ 
ization. Analytic means taking the whole and separating 
it into its various ultimate elements or parts, its ultimate 
ingredients. Just remember synthetic gin, and you can’t 
get confused. Synthetic gin is gin made by putting the 
various ingredients together in a certain way, a certain 
proportion. So much water, so much alcohol, so much 
juniper, so much nitre, all mixed up is synthetic gin. 
See?” 

He looked sleeply at Brat to see him nod his head, 
then continued, “Now, when you pass out after drinking 
about two quarts of this synthetic gin, the doctors wonder 
what the hell you drank! So they pump out your 
stomach and analyze its contents. By analysis they de¬ 
termine that whatever was in your stomach contained 
water, alcohol, juniper and nitre, the ultimate ingredients 
or elements. See?” 

He stopped again for a moment. “Now, all philoso¬ 
phy can be divided into two parts or kinds, according to 
these two processes—one, making one thing out of many, 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


219 


arguing from causes to effects, and the other, making 
many things out of one, arguing from effects to causes; 
one is inductive, the other is deductive reasoning. Just 
remember these two lines and you can criticize any theory 
of values or anything else in an intelligent way.” 

Somerford asked a few more questions and took his 
departure. After the door closed behind him, Riley came 
from his place of confinement and announced that he had 
to eat before any further work was possible, so the other 
two called a halt and joined him in cereal and coffee at 
the nearby Waldorf, after which the three returned to 
their studies. The would-be psychologists heard the clock 
strike three before they finally called it a day by going 
to bed. Riley, they discovered had preceded them. 

The most important question on the morning’s exam, 
which proved to be of the ordinary variety: easy to pass 
but hard to make a high grade on—was concerned with 
the analytic-synthetic contrast as applied to a selection of 
ten notable philosophers and psychologists of the last 
fifty years. Somerford wrote for an hour on and around 
this question. Brat wrote what Brock had told him, 
applying the formula to as many of the theories as he 
could. Brock wrote a compact but comprehensive answer. 

Outside the hall, after the exam, Somerford was jubi¬ 
lant. “Boy, oh boy! I know I knocked it for a loop! I 
wrote for an hour on that one question. Wrote two blue 
books! ” He was certainly confident. 

The returns, received a few days later, justified that 
confidence, for he received a B, while Brock had to be 
satisfied with a C plus and Brat with a C minus. Once 
again the mighty bull was more successful than reason, 
and Brock declared with much feeling that some day he 
intended to write a book on the “Critique of Pure Rea¬ 
son,” but that his book would have nothing in common 
with Emmanuel Kant’s famous work on that subject. 
“Reason,” said Brock, “is obviously poor property, and 
to be reasonable is to be foolish in a society that puts a 


220 


WILD ASSES 


premium on huey such as Somerford merchandises so 
successfully.” 

To which Riley replied, agreeing facetiously with his 
boon companion, saying, “Yes, Somerford is the cardinal 
example of how to get ahead without a head.” This from 
Riley, who could easily outdo Somerford’s length and 
endurance in elucidating upon any given topic. 

To which Brat replied, tossing into the waste basket 
an envelope which he had had in his pocket since the 
day before the Psychology exam, “Somerford merely 
writes out everything that comes into his head. You fel¬ 
lows would save yourselves a lot of worry and trouble 
if you would always do the logical thing, whatever it is— 
you spend half your time worrying over how you can do 
something better. Somerford doesn’t; he does what he 
can do and never thinks about ‘better’ ways or ‘better’ 
answers.” Which was altogether an unusually long 
speech for Brat, but Riley had an idea that his room¬ 
mate had been thinking about the letter which had been 
burning his pocket for the past few days and that in 
consequence he had been deciding something along the 
lines which he laid down as Somerford’s. As fact, Brat 
had been doing just that—he did not call on Virginia. 

Culture: Sunburn or Tanned? 

The Fourth of July was quite improperly celebrated by 
all those members of the crowd who were in Cambridge 
at the time. Brock and Riley were there—as Government 
students they were there every summer—awaiting the 
opening of the Summer School, and Brat was also there, 
having decided not to accept the tutorial position until 
after the close of the Summer School in mid-August. 
The three of them faced the hot weather in prospect with 
few interests other than the trying to keep cool, which is 
more or less of a problem, indeed a difficult proposition, 
to undertake, as there are perhaps only a very few places 
this side of the land traversed by Dante’s fancy more hot 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


221 


and uncomfortable than Harvard Square in mid-summer. 

No one expected to do much studying or to find much 
enjoyment. Indeed, no one ever expects to study in the 
Summer School, except perhaps a few misguided crea¬ 
tures from the tail-grass country. Certain it is that Har¬ 
vard undergraduates, who for one reason or another 
attend the hot session of July and August, do so without 
hoping for anything of an enlightening or exciting nature 
to happen during that time. A few men, acting in a 
moment of weakness no doubt, let themselves in for a 
summer’s discomfort just for want of something to do, but 
such lightning of error seldom has been known to strike 
twice in the same individual. In general the summer 
season in Harvard Square is made up of individuals not 
enjoying life—at least, the male figures may be thus 
described, although it has been quite true that many of 
the visitors from other colleges and universities have upon 
many occasions been seen to act very suspiciously happy. 
This fact has provided a simple means of telling offhand 
whether any individual is a student at Harvard during the 
winter or merely a summer visitor, the rule being that if 
the man acts happy and in a manner that leads one to 
believe he is having the time of his life, so to collegiately 
speak, he very obviously and certainly is not a regular 
Harvard undergraduate. To the Crimson’s real sons, the 
Summer School is something to be tolerated and looked 
down upon as an unnecessary evil; as a result the visiting 
men and women are quite properly objects of toleration 
and condescension, for they are very obviously “out¬ 
siders” and “foreigners” to these precincts which have 
been traditionally the haunts of men; they do not 
“belong,” and should therefore consider themselves fortu¬ 
nate in being allowed to enter the walls of this great 
temple of learning and to hear the voices of the renowned 
priests therein. As Riley very aptly explained the situa¬ 
tion, “These people rush in here and sit in the Harvard 
sunshine for five short weeks and chase away with a 
cultural sunburn, which they proceed to flaunt around the 


222 


WILD ASSES 


country as genuine Harvard stuff! But the real Harvard 
man acquires by his continued residence here a cultural 
tan, which is in no way similar to the bright red burns 
which they carry.” 

The Harvard man does not enjoy his Summer School, 
and he has only pity for those who do enjoy it; he feels 
sorry for any one who can relish such meagre fare. Yet 
these strangers do relish it, and many of them are so 
adept that after a couple of summers in Cambridge they 
feel that they are as Harvardian and Cantabrigian as if 
they had spent four or five years there as undergraduates. 
However, as Riley pointed out, they cannot really attain 
the level of the Harvard undergraduate because the latter 
has the well developed uppishness of the accustomed 
superior; he knows that in Harvard he has the best and 
highest in the country and that, regardless of all the 
small colleges’ envious dreams and claims—which are as 
flyprints to him—he need doff his cultural chapeau to 
none, at least and especially not to summer students! 

Feeling as he does, the Harvard man who must attend 
in the hot season looks forward to the time as a dead 
loss, unless he is fortunate in his friendships so that his 
time can be divided between the Square and seashore 
camps or other refuges. The compensations of the situa¬ 
tion mean little to him—the eternally parading^ girls, 
whose numbers along the Avenue are mysteriously trebled 
during the no-college months; the Summer School girls 
mingling wholeheartedly in the parade, which is ordi¬ 
narily made up of crazy young things looking for excite¬ 
ment in the persons of college boys; this enlarged assort¬ 
ment of available female companions means little to the 
regular, who knows better than to seek his game near 
Harvard Square. Other slight compensations, whatever 
they may be, are at most as negligible in the eyes of the 
same regular. 

So it was that Brat, Riley and Brock were looking for 
excitement while waiting for the school to convene, and 
so it was that they celebrated the Fourth improperly and 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


223 


unbecomingly by visiting, incognito, Revere Beach where 
they flirted promiscuously and with fair results with the 
five varieties of Jewess indigenous to Revere, rode six 
times on the Thunderbolt roller-coaster, ate too many hot 
dogs and drank too much soft beer. They were back in 
their rooms at midnight, having witnessed every fire¬ 
works’ display in and around Boston on the night before 
as well as the night of the Fourth. And as proof of what 
higher education can do for human beings, they all thor¬ 
oughly enjoyed the time quite as much as did the God- 
forgotten Jewesses whom they encountered at Revere. 

The following day saw the opening of the Summer 
School, and from that day until the middle of August the 
three partners were more than usually attentive to their 
studies, chiefly for the reason that they could find little 
else to do. On various occasions they sallied forth to 
seek entertainment, but their efforts were as often as not 
wasted. 

“The place is going to hell!” Of this, Riley was con¬ 
vinced. “A man can’t even walk through the Yard with¬ 
out swallowing his pride! And the place up there with 
all the trees and their green, setting off the red and white 
of those old buildings is really beautiful, something that 
could be enjoyed, if it weren’t for those damned self-made 
poets who hold forth regularly on the library steps and 
in front of every lecture hall!” 

To which Brock felt called upon to make aft answer to 
the effect that perhaps the beauty of the Yard was the 
cause of the poets’ flocking about so, but this answer 
merely set Riley to continue, “I wish that were it, but if 
you ever stop and listen to the inane, absolutely kittenish 
chatter of those tennis hounds on the steps of Sever, 
you’ll assure yourself that it is not so. Why, it’s desecra¬ 
tion! The Puritan purity of those buildings up there, 
the very architecture representing the ideal of purity, is 
outraged! The green lawns, the green trees, other sym¬ 
bols of virgin beauty, are at odds with that motley crew 
that inhabits the Yard these days! Why, I’m getting so 


224 


WILD ASSES 


that I can’t look upon a Harvard pennant or banner with¬ 
out wondering if the crimson has come from some of 
those kittenish ladies who infest our fair temple!” 

A few days after this conversation, Brock and Riley 
attended one of the official dances at the Union just to 
see what the harvest of men and women would be, and 
returned to tell Brat of their experiences. Brock, whose 
artificial appendage precluded his dancing when sober, 
had spent the evening talking with several young and 
middle-aged schoolmarms with whom he managed to 
strike up acquaintance and with the half-dozen or so of 
young, excitable girls whom Riley deposited with him 
after having danced with them. According to Riley, the 
party was rather stupid, it being his conviction, or so he 
said, that the authorities need never be afraid lest the 
summer students be not studious, “because such an assort¬ 
ment of human beings could not possibly be frivolous.” 

“The only way I can explain these school teachers,” he 
told his roommates, “is by Emerson’s Law of Compensa¬ 
tion. School teachers, scholars and men and women of 
so-called genius are lacking in something. As far as I 
can see they usually are homely as the proverbial mud 
fence; consequently they develop their powers in other 
directions,—they have to develop some side of them, the 
idea being that if one’s physical or mental qualities are 
circumscribed in one direction, the natural thing to do is 
over-develop some other quality or side. Now, as it is very 
evident that those people at the Union dance were not 
over-developed in physical or mental charm, they ought 
to be good students!” 

“Right-o!” agreed Brock. 

“School teaching must be a damned tough life,” Riley 
continued, settling himself to smoke a cigarette before 
retiring, “if those individuals are representative. I only 
saw about six people up there who would in my opinion 
be good school teachers, and yet most of that crowd are 
in that profession.” 

“Well, somebody has to teach school,” commented 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


225 


Brat, in his logical, never inquisitive way. To Brat, 
things were as they were, and to try to inspect them for 
reasons and causes was a waste of worry. 

“Yes, true enough,” agreed the Irishman. “Somebody 
has to do the teaching, but my God, no wonder kids hate 
school!” 

“Oh, the trouble with this teaching game,” began Brock, 
“is that the natural-bom school teacher is a rare article, 
and the demand is woefully out of proportion to the 
supply. From all I can gather, most of these people have 
gone into teaching merely because they had nothing else 
to do at the time they started. As I told a fellow up there 
tonight, ‘You school teachers are like mercenary “pink 
ladies.” ’ He didn’t know whether to act sore or smile at 
that, but what I meant was that they take what is momen¬ 
tarily the easiest way. After a couple of years they find, 
just as the street-walking solicitor does, that it’s easy to 
start but hard to keep going. It can’t be expected that 
we’d have many perfect teachers as long as that is the 
prevailing thing.” 

“Yes, but what can be done about it?” This from 
Brat, of course. 

Brock did not answer, but shrugged his shoulders, so 
much as to say, “Don’t ask me—it’s not my worry.” 

But Riley, who had been thinking while Brock talked, 
had something to add. “Just think of all the school 
teachers you’ve known in your life,” he suggested. “They 
can all be divided into two distinct types—those who have 
a very active and dominant inferiority complex and those 
who have an impossibly egotistical superiority complex. 
They are either chronic, habitual subordinates, or they 
are self-deceiving, demagogic superordinates! I’ve known 
about one good teacher in my life; all the rest were 
either of the inferiority kind, who go into teaching be¬ 
cause they are afraid or loth to face the racket and rush 
of the cruel commercial world, or they were of that 
excrutiatingly overbearing kind, who think they know all 
there is to know of their profession, who feel that they 


226 


WILD ASSES 


are divine gifts to mankind, endowed with godlike quali¬ 
ties for the keeping of their brethren. That kind always 
takes responsibilities too seriously for being a good 
teacher. Both are harmful—you can’t blame kids for not 
liking them.” 

“Somewhere,” said Brock, after a moment, “there ought 
to be a happy mean—a sort of happy middler, so to 
speak.” 

“Yes, there ought to be, but they’re few and far between 
—the schoolteacher will probably always be either a 
Prussian demagogue who looks and acts like an ogre, or 
a weak sister who worries her head off trying to keep kids 
from taking advantage of her kindly nature. The trouble 
is that the jobs do not attract the successful type of 
person. I think that any man, if he has the stuff in him, 
will be successful and effective in whatever line of work 
he takes up, but the ones who have the stuff in them 
never think of teaching school.” Riley very certainly did 
not overrate the profession of teaching. 

Brock, who was really in more sympathy with his 
friend’s views than his talk would indicate, continued to 
pour oil on the fire by saying, “Well, that’s not so true 
now—according to what I was told tonight by a sweet 
but serious young thing from Radcliffe. She said that the 
personality of the teacher is becoming less and less im¬ 
portant as scientific education develops. I should think 
a science of education would tend to reduce the impor¬ 
tance of the teacher—but, of course, I suppose that’s 
over-emphasized.” 

Riley’s fire needed no more oil for an explosion. 
“They are crazy!” he exclaimed. “Just making a bed 
for themselves to lie in! All this scientific huey, all this 
mental age stuff and intelligence quotients and other 
paraphernalia for measuring and classifying kids is a 
lot of damned foolishness! All this ‘project method’ and 
‘scientific approach,’ these questionnaires and tests for 
vocational and educational guidance and treatment—all 
this stuff has come about as the result of some normal- 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


227 


school professors not having enough to do to keep them 
busy. They probably looked from their cloistered win¬ 
dows and said to themselves, ‘All this science, with its 
laws of chemistry and physics and biology, being applied 
to life in general, ought to elevate our profession as it has 
others. This is a machine age; why not make a science 
of education which would mechanize the education of 
children? “Science of education” sounds better than 
“school teaching” or “pedagogy” anyway.’ That’s prob¬ 
ably how they figured, and as a result the Science of 
Education has become all the rage, and the kids are being 
put in at the big end of the machine and turned out at 
the little end, a finished product!” 

“Still, a lot of it sounds pretty good, don’t you think, 
frankly?” Brock’s eyes were twinkling. He enjoyed 
nothing so much as to see the Irishman shatter idols and 
throw verbal monkey-wrenches about. 

“Oh, perhaps.” Riley was more calm than Brock ex¬ 
pected. “I don’t know—the point is that it’s all so 
damned unnecessary, a lot of fuss about nothing. Un¬ 
doubtedly there is a science of education, but it’s the 
science that every teacher used to learn by teaching; now 
they try to learn it by sitting in Lawrence Hall listening 
to lectures on Freud and Froebel and discussing such 
paramount topics of the day as ‘Why Animals Play’ and 
‘I. Q.’s That I have Known’.” 

Riley swore, at great length; this was another of his 
pet antipathies and he would have talked all night had 
not Brock and Brat both laughed at him, Brock saying, 
with a smile, “All right—you win, Doctor! It’s all a 
lot of superficial and unnecessary bunk! That’s settled. 
Now, when Brat gets to be President of Harvard College, 
we’ll make him discontinue the School of Education 
entirely.” 

“You ought to write a book,” said Brat to the wild 
iconoclast. 

“By heaven! I’m going to some day!” Riley was 


228 


WILD ASSES 


very much in earnest. “All this hot air theory stuff gives 
me acute pains in the neck!” 

“Well, it’s a tough life, anyway, Tommy—a stiff 
proposition in either hand, so to speak,” returned Brock, 
who was ready to retire and forget the troubles of the 
world. 

“A hell of a life! People are either living way up in 
the clouds of thought and don’t know the world’s going 
on at all, or else they rush around counting minutes, full 
of business and money-madness, and don’t know what the 
hell they’re chasing after! There doesn’t seem to be any 
Aristotelian mean! The theorists don’t even know they’re 
alive, and the others chase around so damned fast, busy 
as hell about something that doesn’t contribute the least 
iota toward life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness— 
so damned excited and busy that they don’t have any idea 
whatever as to what or why they’re chasing around. I 
wish I’d lived in the Middle Ages—there was some happy 
medium then, Artemis and Aphrodite were both permis¬ 
sible; but everything moves so bloody fast nowadays that 
a man can’t live a decently regulated life, with ideals and 
intellectual satisfactions. For a fact, I hate like hell to 
realize that I’m living, spending my life, in an age in 
which no one seems to know what the hell they’re doing 
or why they do it! The old days were the happy days 
for that!” 

“Which reminds me of Browning’s description”; Brock 
was undressing but he stopped, with his artificial leg 
hanging from his arm, and said, “ ‘So you saw yourself 
as you wished you were. As you might have been, as you 
cannot be.’ ” His undressing continued as he hopped 
into the bedroom for his pajamas, calling back from 
there, “What say, Brat—shall we reform the world?” 

“Hell of a thing to worry about,” returned Brat, also 
beginning to remove his clothes. “You can’t change 
things anyway, so why worry about them? Got enough 
to do to live.” 

Brat went into the bedroom, Riley coming in a few 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


229 


minutes later to find both in bed, but before he crawled 
into his own cot, he took time to say, “And there, Brocker, 
is the product of scientific education! ‘Why worry?’ 
‘Just live!’ ‘Do as you’re supposed to!’ ‘Follow the sys¬ 
tem and you’ll win!’ And you probably will win—prob¬ 
ably have all kinds of money and won’t know what to do 
with it! Probably hear of you some day giving Success 
lectures to school kids, and I’ll laugh to hear how you 
explain your success.” 

He turned down his blankets and rolled in, pulling up 
the covers as he flung another afterthought at his chuck¬ 
ling roommates, “I am going to write a book some day 
and damned if I don’t make Blunderbrat the hero of it!” 

No reply, no sound except the sound of breathing, then, 
from Brock, sleepily, “All joking aside, Tom—do you 
honestly think Christ fed five thousand and walked on the 
water?” 

A snort from Brat. A subdued laugh from Brock. 
Then, the Irishman, with his sense of humor recovered, 
saying solemnly, “Yes, Christ did feed the five thousand 
and Christ did walk on the water, but Galilee is far 
from the Charles River! Yet, verily I say unto thee, 
he hath sent many Ruths to lie at the feet of our God and 
many Rahabs to shelter the spies in our midst! And they 
covet our God and our enemies, yet they covet not ye sons 
of Onan!” A laugh from Riley. “Guess that will put 
you to sleep, you poor deluded incense burners!” 

In reply, a snore from Brat and a laughing “Shut up!” 
from Brock. Squeaks of bed springs. Quiet. 

Three typical college men—it would never do for the 
world at large to suspect such men of actually thinking 
and talking seriously about serious things, yet it is never¬ 
theless true that some of them do thus bother their heads 
—not any of Brat’s kind, however. 


230 


WILD ASSES 


0 Education! 

What sins are committed in thy name! 

Not long after the foregoing incident took place, the 
three inseparables went to hear a lecture and reading on 
Sir Walter Scott, given by one of Harvard’s most eminent 
professors, an eccentric little gentleman who had more 
humorous, often ludicrous, anecdotes to his credit than 
any other instructor in the University. A Scot by descent, 
with a love and feeling for the literature of his ancestral 
land and her English neighbors, he was one of the most 
popular, but least known personally, of all the corps of 
instructors. Indeed, his renown was such that whenever 
he consented to give a “reading” or a lecture in the Sum¬ 
mer School, the largest auditorium in the University had 
to be used, and even that was always over-crowded. 

Riley was far-sighted enough to' insist upon going early 
to avoid the rush, but even so they had a difficult time 
before they located three adjacent seats that were vacant. 
The throng which awaited the coming of the esteemed 
professor was composed in the greater part of women, 
the fact being so noticeable that Brock, after surveying 
the multitude, ventured an appropriate remark to the 
effect that he “didn’t blame people for accusing Harvard 
of being a No Man’s Land.” At which, two mannishly 
dressed girls, who were sitting to the left of Brock, 
glanced smilingly around at him and then fell to whisper¬ 
ing in giggles. On Brock’s right, Brat was sitting with 
an air of perfect boredom, while next to him Riley was 
calmly surveying the sea of femininity before and around 
him, and listening to the very audible dialogue of two 
studious-looking women beside him. 

Presently a young man, with flowing hair and flapping 
tie offsetting a huge pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, 
appeared in a near-by entrance and began to walk slowly, 
majestically, up the aisle. After a momentary hush, the 
buzz and burr of much talking continued, and one of 
Riley’s neighbors whispered to the other that the new- 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


231 


comer “Is Fodd, the poet! Such an interesting man! 
Knows Harvard so well, and all the instructors are his 
personal friends! You should meet him!” Riley 
watched the oncoming poet as he listened to this hit of 
information. Another overheard remark from behind 
also informed him that, “Fodd is in with all the in¬ 
structors, a clever, brilliant man, very interesting to 
know! ” Riley continued to watch and listen. The celeb¬ 
rity continued his slow progress up the aisle, nodding 
here and there and beaming toothily but importantly 
upon a few acquaintances who happened to be sitting 
along the way. A romantic figure he cut, completely 
consistent with the illuminating and appraising comments 
of the women who watched his modulated march. 

Suddenly Brock began to laugh, in anything but a well- 
controlled parlor laugh. Brat smiled. Riley looked and 
smiled, awaiting enlightenment as to the joke. Brock 
laughed, louder and louder. Heads began to turn toward 
him inquiringly. Even the poet looked to the source of 
all this distracted attention. Still Brock laughed, slap¬ 
ping his artificial leg in time to his guffaws; tears filled 
his eyes; his collar was limp with perspiration. 

The poet stopped for a moment to speak with a friend, 
who was sitting just off the aisle, and Brock’s laughter 
ceased, several huge sighs marking the degree of exhaus¬ 
tion to which he had come in his laughing. He looked at 
Riley. Riley looked at him. He looked toward the aisle. 
Riley looked toward the aisle and saw the poet almost 
beside them now in his slow march. Brock fell to laugh¬ 
ing again and Riley noted that the renowned and popular 
versifier was taking a seat in the row behind them, being 
met with respectful greetings from two ladies who appar¬ 
ently had been saving a seat for him. 

“I was conversing with the Professor,” Riley heard him 
say, with a suspiciously artificial English accent. “He 
was insistent that we discuss whether or not he should 
mention some of the unsavory details of Scottish life in 
his lecture this evening. I was in a terrific hurry, and did 


232 


WILD ASSES 


not care to talk, but he refused to stop until quite sat¬ 
isfied. He had not been to dinner either—in all proba¬ 
bility we shall have to swelter here waiting for him—” 
etc., etc. 

“Oh, do tell us, Mr. Fodd! What were the unsavory 
details?” This from one of his fair companions. 

“Oh, really—that would be too much, indeed!” This 
with that awful English accent and an affected laugh. 
“But you know—he is the kind of a chap that depends 
absolutely upon his friends—he absolutely insisted upon 
having my opinion-” 

Riley’s attention was distracted from further listening 
by the entrance of the eminent Professor, arriving 
promptly at the hour and minute appointed. He was at 
once the cynosure of all eyes. The hall was quiet until 
he had settled in his chair, arranged his notes and books 
and began to speak, whereupon the whispering revived. 

He talked for an hour, now reading, now lecturing, 
dwelling almost entirely upon the writings of Scott and 
emphasizing especially the noble character of the author 
as shown by his giving the last years of his life to pay his 
publishers’ debts. Ending with a short reading from 
Lockhart’s biography, the little Professor removed his 
spectacles, bowed, and began to collect his papers and 
notes. The hall echoed handclappings and a few cheers 
as the crowd moved to disperse. 

Riley heard the poet say that he was going to stop for 
a moment to speak with his friend, the Professor, and 
noticed that the ladies were properly impressed. Next, 
he felt Brock’s hand pushing him back into his seat, from 
which he had started to move. 

“Wait a minute, Tom!” Brock said with a twinkling 
smile. “We’ll have some fun.” 

So they waited until the poet and his two friends began 
to walk down the aisle toward the speaker’s desk. Then 
Brock led Brat and Riley along behind them, so that by 
the time the poet reached the desk, Brock was beside him. 
The little Professor was being besieged with questions 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


233 


from a crowd, mostly of women, which closed about him. 
At last, however, Brock managed to address him, saying, 
“Good evening, sir! I wonder-” 

“Good evening, Brocker!” returned that gentleman, 
with a smile which might have indicated his relief at 
seeing a familiar face in this throng. “What criticism 
have you to offer, Brocker?” 

Brock laughed. “None whatever, sir!” he said. “I 
merely wanted to ask if you could tell me what some of 
the unsavory details of Scottish life were, in the early 
nineteenth century and before—you were discussing them 
with Mr. Fodd, I believe.” Brock’s eyes were really 
twinkling now. 

At mention of his name, the poet appeared to be un¬ 
certain whether to smile or be dignified. The Professor, 
however, did not even notice him. Looking searchingly 
at his young veteran friend, he said, “Fodd? Fodd? I 
don’t recall any discussion of that topic with any one, 
but, Brocker, who is this Mr. Fodd?” 

Brock turned a devilish smile upon the discomfited 
poet, and Riley thought for a moment that he contem¬ 
plated exposing the gentleman before all his admirers, 
most of whom were now smiling broadly or laughing out¬ 
right at him. Brock, however, did not do his worst, sat¬ 
isfying himself by saying, “Why, Mr. Fodd is the well- 
known poet—surely you know him, sir?” He smiled, 
and the Professor, his expression changing suddenly to a 
stern, set smile, said with much feeling, “The gentleman 
is an imposter, Brocker! An imposter!” 

Brock could not restrain his laughter any longer. He 
thanked the Professor and turned toward the would-be 
poet, but the poet had softly stolen away, through a now 
hostile crowd which greeted his passing with funny little 
smiles. 

Brock rejoined his companions and explained, “I’ve 
been in a couple of courses with that apple! He’s one 
of the biggest jokes that ever hit this place—runs around 
spreading a line two feet thick everywhere. To hear him 


234 


WILD ASSES 


talk you’d think he was John Masefield or Maeterlinck; 
last summer old man Thompson in that English course 
had to bawl him out a half dozen times for talking so 
bloomin’ much! He never had a line of poetry published 
in his life, and he isn’t even a Harvard man. He’s just 
another of the common variety of four-flushin’ poseurs 
who come here and get away with murder!” Brock was 
not laughing now. He was very much in earnest. 

Brat smiled at his description of the poet, but Riley, 
laughing at the thought of the conversation which he had 
overheard, exclaimed, gleefully, “And don’t the women 
fall for that stuff! They swallow everything—hook, line 
and sinker, and snap at the pole!” 

“Well,” said Brat with a smile, “I guess Brock spiked 
him for a while at least.” 

To which Riley agreed. Brock had done a good piece 
of work, and the Prof was not a bad sport, to come 
through that way in the pinch, for, as Brock explained, 
“He must have heard of this Fodd before, from the 
way he spoke up!” 

Riley added, “Well, I’m glad we stick together against 
the usurpers and imposters at least!” Which seemed to 
be the consensus of feeling, so the three walked on home 
discussing other, more immediately important subjects. 

A Little Consequence 

A few days before the close of the Summer School, 
Brock and Riley were standing at one of the Yard gates, 
watching the daily parade, when F. Somerford Hamilton 
strolled up to them and unusually calmly asked how 
things were going with the crowd and the College at large. 
The sight of him quite shocked both Riley and Brock, for 
he was an entirely different Somerford from the one they 
had known. Tanned, hardened features were offset by 
tell-tale marks of wear and tear on “the Innocent.” 

“Where the devil have you been, Frank?” asked Riley. 
“We haven’t seen you since June.” 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


235 


“Oh, why speak of love?” answered the lanky one, in 
an ineffectual attempt at his old swagger. “I’ve been 
through hell, boys—through hell!” 

“Why? What’s the matter with you? You look as if 
you’d been drawn through a sausage grinder,” laughed 
Brock. 

“Huh—bet he’s married!” said Brock. “Looks it.” 

“Married, hell!” exclaimed the tall youth. “I wish I 
had been. You know that party down at the beach?” 

Laughter by Brocker and Riley; yes, they both knew 
of the party to which Frank referred. 

“Well—I’ve been working for the past six weeks as a 
consequence of that party!” 

“Well,” replied Riley, not understanding, “you look 
as if you had been doing something. What do you 
mean?” 

“I’d like to wring that damned manicurist’s neck!” 
Somerford was not so much of a lad now. “She came 
around to me about three weeks after that party and she’s 
been on my neck ever since. Said she’d been sicker’n a 
dog as a result of that party and that she was broke and 
didn’t have enough to live on—and—oh—a lot of other 
stuff about me being responsible for her being there! 
And, dammit, I didn’t invite her, so I laughed until she 
threatened to go to my old man! Then I figured she’d 
probably exaggerate the affair—and—well—the old man 
would raise merry hell if he knew I ever went on any 
parties like that! So finally I gave her enough money 
to keep her quiet—had to borrow the money, and I’ve 
been working ever since trying to keep her mouth shut. 
Every time she sees me she hits me up for a ten at least! 
God, I’m almost crazy! And it gets worse and worse! 
The old man won’t give me a cent until college opens in 
the fall!” 

“You damned fool!” Riley suddenly exclaimed. “Any 
other time and you would have come running to us for 
advice! Why didn’t you ask some one about it? That girl 
had no claim on you for that fluke party! And I know 


236 


WILD ASSES 


that’s a fact!” And Riley went on to explain his con¬ 
clusion. 

“Yes, that ought to be enough!” agreed Brock when 
Riley finished. “There’s a lesson for you, Frank.” 

“Damned shame, Frank,” Riley went on. “You should 
have come around, instead of paying out all that money. 
You don’t seem to know that this place is just full of girls 
who like nothing better than to rook poor, God-fearing 
students like you! Look around the Square right now! 
Do you ever see women dressed so sensuously attractive 
anywhere else but here? Why I think that some of 
these girls when they think they’re coming into or through 
Harvard Square, make a point of dressing just as expos- 
ingly, as suggestively, as they can; they seem to think 
that if they keep no secrets from the boys down here, 
they may get into something interesting! And they do, 
and lots of the boys get into interesting things, too—just 
as you have done!” 

Somerford was uncomfortable, exceedingly so—indeed 
he had been uncomfortable for a long time, but no one 
had rubbed it into him. He looked at Brock for support, 
but Brock merely echoed Riley’s sentiments, saying, “It’s 
a fact. Even the summer women around here are a prob¬ 
lem. Some of them probably work like hell all winter 
long to save enough money to come here and splurge 
for six weeks. Lots of them are starving for the excite¬ 
ments you read about in the books and magazines. 
They’ll smoke cigarettes, even if it suffocates them, and 
they’ll drink rotten hooch, even though it nauseates them! 
They play around flapperlike with these so-romantic men 
here—even though the playing is irritatingly inane! 
They taste as much of these over-advertised excitements 
as they can and then go home thinking they’ve had a 
hell of a time—think they’ve been seeing life and tasting 
experience! And the funny part of it is that they prob¬ 
ably keep on wondering why they didn’t get as much 
kick out of it as they expected.” 

Somerford mumbled something unintelligible and 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


237 


looked at Riley, who went on from the point of Brock’s 
stopping. “The place is full of them! The parade goes 
on every day and night! Most of them aren’t had— 
that is, they aren’t looking for opportunities to go the 
limit, but they just crave excitement, something to do, 
something that will thrill them! Man-crazy girls who 
have nothing better to do than hang around where college 
men can see them and meet them—it’s not much of a 
question whether they come here to know or to be known 
—their flare for learning is about powder-deep; they are 
infatuated with education for the sake of its appendages, 
just as sexual infatuation is a love of something for the 
sake of something else. And the point about your case is 
that every girl takes it for granted that every Harvard 
man has plenty of money, rich parents, prestige and 
standing, which should make it easy picking for a clever 
girl. The only thing the matter with that manicurist was 
that she suffered a chill from that cold water down 
there! ” 

Somerford was properly impressed by what his two 
friends had said to him. “But,” he returned dryly, “that 
doesn’t get back any money from that little rat, and I 
haven’t scraped together enough to pay my bills. I’d like 
to take it out of her hide-” 

“Which would do no good!” added Riley. “Best thing 
you can do is to go to your old man and put it up to him 
in all frankness. Tell him all about it and say that 
you’re stuck and he’ll have to help you out. And he’ll 
take care of you.” 

This suggestion did not sound so well to Somerford, 
however, and he was still as much up in the air as to 
what he would do, when he left Brock and Riley, as he 
had been when he met them. 

He went across the street and entered the subway, and 
his two friends, after seeing him safely out of sight, 
turned up the Avenue and walked home, discussing his 
case and other relevant subjects as they walked along. 

“It’s the nub of the whole thing!” was Riley’s final 



238 


WILD ASSES 


comment. “Men don’t worry so much nowadays over any 
ill effects to themselves, but they think more about the 
trouble that the girls are liable to get into. That same 
fear also keeps more girls straight than anything else.” 

“More truth than poetry,” agreed Brock, solemnly. 
“And the result is that that good old word ‘virtue,’ which 
the Romans used to define as purity of character, has 
come to mean physiological virtue, virginity, and every 
girl who is still a virgin thinks she’s virtuous.” 

“Which accounts for so many of these so-called ‘every¬ 
thing but’ girls; just between you and me, Brock, I know 
a couple of prostitutes for whom I have more respect 
than I have for several of these ‘teasers’ with whom we’ve 
come in contact!” Riley talked very earnestly. “In my 
opinion, there’s nothing lower than one of these girls 
who allows every kind of mauling and then chirps about 
never having been touched! Many a loose lady has more 
moral backbone, more real purity of character, more of 
the Roman virtue than any one of that kind! ” 

“Guess the world’s headed for hell, sure ’nough!” 
laughed Brock. 

These two took the ills of the world very much to 
heart; they spent much time in discussing these little 
problems and angles of social life as it is lived, and, 
although both really felt that all such things inevitably 
rested upon the well-worn lap of the gods, they persisted 
in trying to explain the whys and wherefores and hence- 
forths of everything around them. 

Meanwhile another individual was also taking stock 
of the way of the world and his value in it. Somerford, 
listening dazedly to the rhythmic hum of the motors and 
trucks of the subway train on which he was riding, told 
himself for perhaps the hundredth time, that he was a 
damned fool for letting himself go on that beach party— 
he could have imagined as good a party any time, with¬ 
out any reason and without any consequences. Like Brat, 
the young fellow was beginning to realize that every 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


239 


little thing has some consequence, but his sequel to the 
beach party incidents was destined to be .even more 
effective and longer in duration than Brat’s, yet, like 
Brat, he was learning about life through women, and his 
pill tasted even worse than that worthy’s. 

Dartonville Revisited 

Brat did not accept the tutoring position which he had 
been offered through the instrumentality of Virginia’s 
father. He had several reasons of his own for preferring 
to listen to the voice of his mother, calling him home. 
After the close of the Summer School, Riley and Brock 
sent him away in a blaze of intoxicated glory—that is, 
they were gloriously intoxicated when they said good-by 
to Brat at South Station. They put him on the train, 
found the porter, gave him a drink and made him prom¬ 
ise to take good care of their “young friend,” and were 
finally able to fall off the train just as it started to move. 
That done, they returned to Cambridge, packed their bags 
and set out for a lake in Maine where they planned to 
rusticate and rough it for a few weeks. 

Dartonville was to all appearances as much in need of 
reform as when Brat had first left it for Harvard, and he 
could not help smiling to himself at the sight of three 
happy inebriates holding forth in a heated debate on the 
street corner nearest his home; indeed the smile endured 
even to the moment of meeting his mother, who smoth¬ 
ered him with kisses and caresses and accepted his smile 
in return, the smile being the same one engendered by 
the sight of the three confirmed enemies of his mother’s 
projects. 

This does not mean that Brat was not glad to see his 
mother again; he was very glad to see her and to be with 
her again, for the school year which he had just finished 
had been a strenuous one, and the refuge of his home 
town had been popping up in his mind as something to 
look forward to. And Mrs. Bratten was still the same 


240 


WILD ASSES 


surrounding influence—Brat allowed himself to be sur¬ 
rounded at once, then did his duty by going to see Ellen. 

He went to her with mixed feelings: he anticipated the 
meeting with much pleasure; he wanted to see her; it 
would be good to talk to her again, to have her near. On 
the other hand, he felt somehow inadequate, as if he were 
going to her just as a matter of form, a case of the body 
being willing but the spirit weak. He could not keep 
from remembering Virginia—and he had stubbornly de¬ 
termined not to remember her! 

Ellen greeted him just as she always greeted him— 
properly: with a caress of welcome, the gentleness of 
which for some strange reason made Brat feel like a crim¬ 
inal! Why? He could not have said; he had no rea¬ 
son to feel guilty—but he did, and he continued to feel 
more guilty as their first conversation progressed. And 
he couldn’t understand the reason for this uncomfortable 
feeling. He discovered that Ellen had been going about 
to dances and affairs with various young men of Darton- 
ville and neighboring cities, so his feeling could not have 
come from that quarter. Ellen seemed perfectly happy 
and contented, properly so—but Ellen was proper in 
everything! It was good to be with her—but Brat did 
not particularly enjoy the call. 

Ellen and his sister, Lois, were after him even before 
Brat had had a night’s sleep, the latter pouring out their 
plans for his time in town much as if he were a hired 
performer and they the directors. They had, it appeared, 
made arrangements to show him off to somebody or 
other almost every night of the time—and many of the 
afternoons. “There are so many, many people here now 
whom you will like so much!” Lois told him, while Brat 
wondered to himself if this were really the girl who had 
always been so distantly related to him when he was an 
awkward kid, the butt of the neighborhood’s jokes. 

“We’ll be pretty busy, won’t we?” he suggested to 
Ellen. 

“Now don’t be silly!” gushed Lois impatiently. “I 
thought you had grown up. Please don’t aggravate me 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 241 

by acting as if you have not outgrown your childish 
ways!” 

Ellen, however, said, “Let’s do whatever he wants to 
do—go to some of these things, and if you don’t enjoy 
them, we’ll do something else.” 

Hearing these two statements, Brat decided that both 
Lois and Ellen were the same girls they had always 
been—which struck him as being odd: they should have 
been different, changed. He smiled at them, when he 
said, “All right—I’ll do anything you want! You people 
plan out everything and tell me what I’m supposed to do 
and I’ll do it!” Which declaration would have pleased 
Riley immensely—the speech was so characteristic of 
Brat’s attitude toward everything. 

So he did as his mother and sister and Ellen planned, 
and he was ready within a week’s time to proclaim to the 
world that he would rather play a whole season of foot¬ 
ball any time than follow the social whirl of Dartonville 
for a week. There was something doing every minute of 
the day and night. Didn’t seem to ever have a chance for 
a good man-sized sleep. Ellen and Lois joined forces to 
keep him busy, and, whereas he had spent such a dull, 
uninteresting summer the previous year when Ellen was 
ill, he now was rushed to the point of being tired. And 
he missed the swearing and hell-raising of his raucous 
roommates more than he could have described. He even 
missed hearing the noise of crap games and the songs of 
liquor-laden students. He missed a lot of things; not 
that the places where Lois and Ellen and their friends 
took him were not fast enough—there was as much free- 
flowing moonshine in Dartonville as there ever had been 
in Cambridge; but his habits with these things, including 
also girls and parties, had been developed in the com¬ 
pany of student friends, and his habits demanded that 
these friends be present upon such occasions, or that their 
absence be felt keenly by him. He felt their absence 
keenly enough; his party style was severely cramped. For 
this and other reasons he soon tired of the round of social 


242 


WILD ASSES 


duties and parties to which Lois and Ellen and his mother 
had pledged him—his mother’s pledges were of a vastly 
different kind from the parties of Lois’s crowd—and at 
the end of the first week he was eager to get away, back 
to Cambridge. 

Whenever time and occasion afforded an opportunity 
he met and talked with the men of the town who had 
been boys with him. But such meetings somehow were 
not very relishing either to him or to the boys. They fell 
flat. No community of interests at all. Reminiscences 
and recollections invariably had no particular point to 
them—Brat had always been more or less alone, even 
when in a crowd of boys, so that the doings of the neigh¬ 
borhood gang of boys were slightly obscure in his mem¬ 
ory. However, he made a valiant attempt to revive his 
old friendships, but invariably his former playmates 
acted rather offish and distant, as if they were suspicious 
of his advances. They suspected him of being uppish with 
all his Hawvawd education, and took the natural way 
of protecting themselves against any overlording, all of 
which was unfortunate, since Brat was anything but snob¬ 
bish, and was really, genuinely desirous of making 
friends with all of them. Yet he did not succeed, and 
life in Dartonville soon began to upset his nervous 
machinery. He seemed to be an outsider, and this despite 
the over-attentive attitude of Ellen and Lois and their 
State University friends. For some reason, Brat felt 
always as much alone in the crowd as he did in absolute 
solitude. He gradually came to the conclusion that some¬ 
thing would have to change if he were ever to be able to 
settle down there, marry Ellen and become the leader 
in such a community. 

Thus Brat spent his vacation, with one exceptional 
occasion, upon which he was made to feel almost at home 
and comfortable. Happening to meet the former cafe 
owner who had been his mother’s lifelong enemy, Brat 
was greeted with something akin to real gusto. The cafe 
owner, it appeared, had heard that Brat’s college friends 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


243 


were rather wild in their pleasures and short in their 
studies, and he took occasion to congratulate him upon 
choosing friends who could show him both sides of life 
“as lived by people who haven’t come under your 
mother’s soul-wrecking influence, son!” Brat had smiled 
at this, and had talked almost intelligently for half an 
hour with his mother’s old enemy. Indeed, his mother’s 
eyes would have turned purple with rage, had she seen 
him during this conversation. Brat was smiling when 
he left the portly, well preserved old gentleman. 

He smiled because, as he said to himself, “It seems that 
you never can tell about things—who’d ever think of 
any one congratulating you on having a bunch of free 
and easy friends!” 

Farther down the street he was greeted by one of the 
notable characters of Dartonville—the human tank of the 
fair city, known to every man, woman and child in the 
community as the original “old soak.” This gentleman, 
whom some jokester with an historical bent had labelled 
as a direct descendant of the Indians of the ancient city of 
Whiskey Switch, greeted Brat with great good-fellowship, 
wrapped his arms around Brat’s neck and proceeded 
to lecture to him upon the fine art and vice of dissipa¬ 
tion. 

“My boy,” he ended, with tears in his eyes, “I’m 
’stremely gratified to hear that y’re gettin’ on fust-rate 
down there! I knew your daddy, and there never was a 
finer, more upright white man ever libed, s’help me God! 
Y-no sir! None better than your dad, God rest his soul! 
We used to keep a beer keg in his stable—ha-ha-ha-a! 
which your mother never knew about at all! Yes sir, 
kept a keg of beer—and say, your dad was a fine man, 
sonny! But—but—but, what I want to say is this, son: 
and don’t think I’m jokin’ ’cause I’m not—I speak from 
experience! I’m a graduate of the good old school of 
hard knocks, and I want to say to you that you’re on the 
right road! I’ve heard how you been gettin’ on, and I 
want to say that you’re doin’ fine, and the farther away 


244 


WILD ASSES 


from hard likker you stay the better off you’ll be! You 
just keep on the way you’re goin’ and you’ll be—why, 
dammitall, maybe you’ll be president or judge or sheriff 
o’ this damned country some day! Yes, sir! Who 
knows? Huh? Who knows?” 

Brat smiled, and nodded his agreement that “Who 
knows?” was a pretty good one. He looked around to 
see how many observers might be watching this conversa¬ 
tion, but before he had decided whether he could safely 
enjoy listening to this old barleycorn wreck, the latter 
was saying good-by to him with, “Remember, son—I’m 
pullin’ for you! You’ve got the right idea, and I want 
to tell you, mister—stick to it! And who knows?” 

Brat actually felt much better after having listened to 
this line of maudlin chatter. He could not have ex¬ 
plained his feeling this way, but he knew he felt better. 
Why, if some one were to offer him a drink at the moment, 
he would almost duck down an alley to take it. Psycho¬ 
logical? It’s a queer study—the fact was that Brat was 
missing his gang in Cambridge, and this drunk was the 
nearest real approach to it that he had seen in Darton- 
ville. 

The vacation drew to a close, and Brat found himself 
growing more and more restive in anticipation of the end 
of his exile at home. He could not keep from showing 
his feelings, in many little ways which were entirely 
apparent to Ellen, but not to his mother or to Lois. 

Ellen took him to task for his attitude, saying, “I can’t 
understand what is the matter with you, Brat!” Ellen 
had addressed him as “Brat” since her first meeting with 
his friends in Cambridge, all of whom called him by 
that name. “Are you dissatisfied with Dartonville and 
us?” 

“Blessed if I know, Ellen,” he answered, almost truth¬ 
fully, for he did suspect that he knew. “There doesn’t 
seem to be anything here—all this running around seems 
so idle and fruitless, as if everybody just does it for the 
sake of something to do.” 


TYPES AND EXCEPTIONS 


245 


“Yes, that’s true, I suppose.” Ellen was thoughtful. 
“I guess that is our only reason for trying to imitate 
Broadway and Fifth Avenue and big city night life—but 
that isn’t what’s troubling you, because you never did 
pay any attention to that sort of thing. Why this sudden 
change?” 

But Brat could not tell her the exact cause of the change 
which was coming over him, and eventually the subject 
had been dropped, only to be taken up for further con¬ 
sideration after they were settled in their chairs on the 
train which took them back to Boston. 

Brat had been much relieved to get away from home 
again. He had been impatient even at the very leavetak¬ 
ing and had tried to hurry his mother’s long-drawn-out 
process of warning him against wine, women, bad boys 
and other conventional dissipations. It was with an audi¬ 
ble sigh of relief, and a smile for Ellen, that he finally 
dropped down into the chair beside her, and Ellen heard 
the sigh and noticed the relieved expression on his face, 
but said nothing about it. 

Ellen was a wise girl, a clever young lady and perfectly 
nice. She had been brought up with the idea that she and 
Brother Bratten were divinely mated and would eventu¬ 
ally be joined together as all good married couples were 
joined. But for some time she had been seeing changes 
in this husband-to-be of hers, little things, between-the- 
lines feelings, and his obvious ennui during the summer. 
Now she wondered about many things, and at last asked 
Brat bluntly, however sweetly, “Brat, are you getting fed- 
up, tired, restless—wishing that you were absolutely 
free?” 

Brat was so taken by surprise that he could not make 
any adequate answer. 

“I think you are, Brat, dear,” Ellen continued. “You 
surely act it—and, of course, I can’t blame you: it isn’t 
your fault if you feel that way! You would like to be 
free to do a lot of things, wouldn’t you? I happen to 
know that you have been sticking pretty close so far, 


246 WILD ASSES 

and I don’t want to feel that I’m responsible for your 
being unhappy.” 

“Why, I don’t know-” Brat began, uncertain as to 

how he would finish the sentence. 

“Well, I know!” she exclaimed as if by inspiration, 
“We’ll call a holiday! I’ll enjoy it just as much as you 
will and it will probably do us both a world of good! 
We’ll call everything off for say this fall—you do just 
as you want to do and I’ll go wherever and whenever I 
want to go! Then, if we do not want to rearrange things 

after Christmas, why—why-” The possibility of this 

had not occurred to her, but she went on to the conclu¬ 
sion, “why, we won’t have to start over again, will we?” 

“No, guess not!” agreed Brat, unable to fully compre¬ 
hend Ellen’s suggestion, but willing to try anything for 
her; and he actually felt at the moment that this plan 
was something for her benefit, not his own. Otherwise he 
would have objected. 

So the plan was put into operation upon their arrival 
in Boston. They would keep in touch with each other, 
lest the folks at home become suspicious and begin ask¬ 
ing funny questions. “But this is between you and me, 
Brat,” Ellen counselled. “We’re the ones who’ll be get¬ 
ting married, not the folks—and if you’re not happy now, 
it would be utterly foolish to go on to marriage without 
giving you a chance to find out whether you really want 
to stick!” 

With these words, Ellen finally made Brat realize that 
the plan was for his own benefit; again he felt like a 
criminal, but for the life of him he could not raise a 
convincing objection. 






The only end to justify education is intelligence; real 
intelligence constitutes one’s religion—the organization 
of values by which one lives. 

Said Riley: “This religion business is merely a con¬ 
venience for human beings who have to live together.” 

“There’s no such thing as an atheist! Regardless of 
how much a man may cry against religion and theology 
and God and the Devil—he may sincerely and earnestly 
believe that there is no God of any kind — but, when he 
gets into trouble, when he finds himself up against some¬ 
thing bigger than he can handle, when he comes to the 
point of helplessness and hopelessness, he’s going to 
pray! And he’ll pray harder and more passionately 
than any ordinary believer! In so doing he admits the 
existence of a power greater than himself, a God.” 

“God’s a refuge—prevents human beings from going 
crazy!” 





















CHAPTER V 


The Last Long Mile 

Seniors! The end is in sight—the last long mile seems 
in advance all too short a time to recoup lost opportuni¬ 
ties and to turn one’s college career to an appropriate 
culmination—and it seems in retrospect even shorter, for 
the time flies swiftly by those whose three years as under¬ 
graduates have given them a routine of occupations. 
There are those, of course, who have as much time on 
their hands as Seniors as they had as Sophomores, but 
these are the exceptions to the rule that Seniors are busy 
individuals, busy either at studying or at seeking enter¬ 
tainment. 

Seniors can be defined as undergraduates who have 
spent sufficient time under an academic rooftree to acquire 
a considerable fund of academically valuable knowl¬ 
edge—among whatever other kinds and amounts of 
knowledge they may possess. Traditionally Seniors know 
much and are confident of their knowledge. This is un¬ 
doubtedly characteristic of the genus Senior at the begin¬ 
ning of the year, but as the weeks pass and the end of 
the collegiate ordeal draws nearer and nearer, this self- 
assurance perceptibly diminishes so that a Senior at Com¬ 
mencement time is usually a picture of self-confidence— 
a picture painted in water colors, for the individual acts 
self-assured and as if he felt himself to be deserving of 
the plaudits and envious respect of the multitude of 
lesser animals, whereas underneath this cocksure veneer 
the man is stubbornly refusing to let himself suspect 
that he really does not know so much, feel so confident of 
his ability, think that he deserves so much credit for his 
endurance—in short, he’s not so self-assured underneath: 
be is beginning to wonder a bit. 

247 


248 


WILD ASSES 


The difference between a Senior and a Graduate— 
unless the man be one of those who are addicted to a life¬ 
long indulgence in sophomorics and superordination com¬ 
plexes, one of those self-conceived cynosures of the 
world’s eyes, one who readily admits that all roads lead 
to Rome, provided that his tent is on the Capitoline Hill 
—lies in the fact that within a very few months after 
graduation, a man comes to the realization that what he 
knows is an infinitesimal bit of the sum total of human 
knowledge and understanding: he becomes doubtful of 
his powers instead of more assured. 

But he is becoming a more socially intelligent individ¬ 
ual, and the Senior year sees, usually, the beginning of 
the growth of this wholly desirable kind of intelligence. 
So it is that the last long mile is the most important and, 
what is more, most happy in and for the life of the 
individual. 


A Few Topics of Interest 

There were many topics for interesting conversation 
among the various friends during the first days of the 
new college year. It was discovered on the very first day 
that young Maunstein had changed his name by dropping 
the “stein” from it, so that now he was to be called 
“Maun” in the college records. Riley and Brock were 
very outspoken in their disapproval of his action, argu¬ 
ing that he had changed his name because he thought the 
fact of his being a Jew had prevented him from gaining 
any prestige in athletics and among his fellows and that 
this late change would in no way affect his standing in 
or out of college. “He should have changed his name 
before he came here, if that’s the way he feels!” was the 
way Riley put it. 

The Beau and his troubles were at once before the 
crowd and continued to demand the attention of all those 
with whom he came in contact. The college authorities 
had refused to readmit him, the Dean frankly suggesting 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


249 


that he try some other college for his pre-medical credits. 
The others sympathized with the French-Canadian but 
agreed with the Dean, and the fact that they all agreed 
on the point caused the hapless Beau to be more than 
ever convinced of the injustices which were being heaped 
upon him. 

“Rotten unfairness!” he complained to the Irishman 
one day. “If I ever have a kid, I’ll give him a pretty 
name and let him be born on Beacon Hill and then I’ll 
send him to a military school just for spite!” 

To which Riley replied, laughing, “Than which nothing 
could be worse! If you send him there you can be 
assured that he’ll learn all the filth and rottenness that 
can be learned and will come back to you with a straight 
back and an impossible flashy-dress complex. Send him 
to a good private school and he’ll come back with his head 
crammed full of entrance exam knowledge, the latest 
fashions in clothes and the idea that the world is his oys¬ 
ter. Send him to a good public school and he’ll know 
more than he can ever use, will wear any kind of clothes 
and won’t care a damn whether his friends are legion or 
just one. Take your pick!” 

“I’ll make him a conductor!” declared the Beau. “How 
about your own?” 

“Mine?” laughed Riley, “I’ll send him to a good pri¬ 
vate school to learn the ropes and to Harvard to pull ’em, 
and I’ll break his neck if he doesn’t play the system and 
win out!” 

The Beau got very little comfort from his friends, 
chiefly because they had little to give him. His case was 
peculiar and they were at a loss to know of any way to 
help him. At last he left Cambridge, bent upon “getting 
in somewhere, if I have to use a jimmy!” 

Another matter which attracted attention was the soon 
apparent fact that Tom Riley had “fallen for” a girl. 
His case was summed up by Brat, who said, “The wiser 
they are the harder the fall!” And truly it seemed so, 
for the Irishman was an unrecognizably new man from 


250 


WILD ASSES 


the start and more often than not had very little concep¬ 
tion of what was going on in the world about him unless 
it concerned the girl and himself. 

He gave vent to his feelings very seldom now, the chief 
and most frequent cause being the “general condition of 
the college” regarding which he held forth at great length 
very often. He objected, he said, “to having the place 
turned into a menagerie and nursery! No wonder the 
people around Boston are suspicious of Harvard men 
when they go running around town in scarlet pimpernel 
sweaters, yellow-and-black plaid hose, size fifteen shoes, 
dirty-brown sports suits, flowing uncombed hair, usually 
uncut, and carrying their hats in their hands! That’s 
what ruins our reputation around Boston—things like 
that running around loose and unchaperoned! The place 
is going to hell! They’ll be making nursing bottles com¬ 
pulsory equipment in a couple of years!” 

To this sort of thing Brat and Brock had to listen, the 
former frankly indifferent, the latter in tolerant agree¬ 
ment. Brat had little to worry about during the first few 
days. He had returned to college a free man, eager to do 
great things. The image of Virginia bothered him a little 
—especially after he discovered that she was rather fre¬ 
quently engaged with a prosperous young banker and 
man about town. Brat, however, was content to let mat¬ 
ters take their course; he had come to the point where the 
only road left for him was the middle road of his own 
progress; he would carry on in his own way and let his 
outside relations take care of themselves. And Brat 
was the kind that can do that sort of thing. 

He was appointed a Senior Adviser and assigned to 
“advise” six Freshmen upon the paths and pitfalls of 
their college careers. Riley was not given any such 
doubtful honors—the office of Senior Adviser has always 
been more or less of a joke—but the Irishman advised 
nevertheless, for in this position Brat functioned very 
poorly, whereas Tom had only to act entirely natural to 
be a perfect adviser. Brat’s Chinaman, Jew, Irishman, Ital- 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


251 


ian and Sweet Boy Graduate (for such was the allotment 
of Freshmen given to Brat) all knew Riley much better 
than they did Brat, and doubtless they learned more of 
value from him than they could have from his stalwart 
roommate. 

So the first days of the fall were passed and as the time 
passed every one became more and more busily engaged 
in the routine of work and play. Brat was kept busy 
from morning to night; the football coaches laid down 
an extraordinary program of training and besides this 
there were the many other phases of his life, including 
duties on committees and in club affairs to which he 
had to attend at least occasionally. During his absences, 
Brock and Riley fell more and more into their own com¬ 
pany and the wheel of life turned merrily on. 


“The Female of the Species-” 

In football the Crimson tide was running strong that 
fall; good material and good fortune resulted in a string 
of hard-fought and well-earned victories. Spirits ran 
high in Cambridge, although the usual, traditional Har¬ 
vard indifference was still noticeable—a fact which Riley 
explained by saying that every one was beginning to take 
Harvard victories for granted, with the result that no one 
even bothered to argue about the merits of rivals and the 
possibilities of defeat. This was more or less true 
throughout the University. When money was offered on 
any visiting team, the Crimson cohorts accepted whatever 
odds happened to prevail, and placed whatever bets were 
available, with very little worry about losing. During 
that season, they made money from the beginning to the 
end, and every one was happy who bet on Harvard. 

Such being the case, the students had other things to 
occupy their minds and their attention. In the case of 
Riley it was a girl, in whom he had suddenly discovered 
the sun to be rising and setting; in the case of Brock it 



252 


WILD ASSES 


was a similar amoural situation, which caused him much 
discomfort; in the case of Brat, it was Virginia, a pret¬ 
tier, more piquant, more intriguing Virginia than of the 
year previous, and for her favor Brat was in open compe¬ 
tition with the wealthy young banker. Such a situation 
had inevitable results, in that Brat was more or less in the 
air most of the time. 

For all, the season passed very quickly, even though 
it was filled with events and incidents of more than pass¬ 
ing interest. Many things happened—they came so fast 
one upon the other that the crowd scarcely had time to 
recover from one thing before another was upon them, 
claiming their attention. 

The first incident concerned their friend Martin. One 
morning in October the Boston papers carried a heavy 
head-lined story about the disappearance of one; James 
Q. Martin, a Harvard student who had been interested 
in the Ku Klux Klan. He had disappeared without leav¬ 
ing the slightest clue to his whereabouts. Foul play was 
suspected. Suicide was suggested. Nearly every pos¬ 
sibility was offered in explanation until finally, two days 
later, the police announced that a note had been found in 
his room, which said: “Leave town at once or suffer.— 
K. K. K.” This, of course, clinched the argument that 
Martin had had a falling out with his brother klansmen, 
and had been threatened with punishment unless he left 
town at once. This theory was satisfactory to all the 
newspaper readers—it was the Klan! They would do 
anything. Nothing was beyond them. But the search for 
Martin continued for several weeks, with no results, 
except the uncovering of several features of the case, at 
first overlooked. One of these was the fact that Martin 
was heavily indebted to almost every tradesman in Har¬ 
vard Square and several of the large stores in Boston, 
and besides this he owed many personal debts, mostly 
money loaned by a score of friends in and around Cam¬ 
bridge. However, the theory that he had been chased 
away by the threats of the Klan, or that he had been kid- 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


253 


napped by them and hidden away, continued to prevail, 
and little trace of him could be found. The weeks 
dragged on, and he was forgotten by all but a very few 
people, a few detectives and a few of his creditors. Riley 
and his companions discussed the strange disappearance 
occasionally, but gradually the gentleman named Martin 
faded from their active memory. 

At the time, Martin’s disappearance created quite a 
furor and much excitement, much discussion about the 
diabolical designs and machinations of the Klan. There 
was much controversy as to whether or not the hooded 
Americans were trying to establish themselves in the col¬ 
leges of the country, and a great hue and cry went up that 
the youth of the nation was being perverted by these secret 
workers for America’s welfare, in the course of which 
young Riley reached one of his greatest heights of tolera¬ 
tion. Said he, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about! 
What if they are a secret order? There are a lot of 
others. What if they do restrict their membership? 
Others do. What if they do argue just as the Black Shirts 
in Italy argue? ‘Italy for Italians’ wasn’t a bad idea! 
And surely ‘America for Americans!’ sounds pretty rea¬ 
sonable. Some of these Irishmen are a disgrace to the 
'race; the Irish stick together like thieves, but just because 
some one else tries to do the same, they kick like hell, 
and accuse them of unpatriotic and traitorous schemes! 
And the Jews do the same, when they are as bad as any 
racial group that we have! Let ’em ride! That’s what I 
say! If they’ve got anything that can help the country, 
give them a chance to show it!” 

Thus did Riley take his stand, and, in speaking of Mar¬ 
tin’s case, he added, “Likely as not the Klan is getting 
blamed for something they never had a hand in. Any¬ 
body, some renegade Irishman, as well as not, could have 
put that note in Martin’s room just as a trick, because 
Martin was suspected of being a Klanner.” However, re¬ 
gardless of Riley’s opinion, the discussion of the Klan 
and of Martin’s case went on and on until his continued 


254 


WILD ASSES 


absence caused all rumors to die a natural death for want 
of new and interesting developments. 

The crowd which made a rendezvous of the rooms occu¬ 
pied by Riley, Brat and Brock, soon forgot about Martin 
and his troubles, because something happened shortly 
after that incident which came much nearer home, and 
affected them all more directly. Brock was the center of 
this incident, very much the center of it, in fact, for by 
his actions at this time he changed the course of life for 
them all—that is, for Brat and Riley. 

Brock had made steady progress during his Junior year 
and through the Summer School. He was pretty squarely 
on his feet when he returned for his Senior year—but that 
over-developed, magnified sensitiveness on the point of 
his relations with members of the opposite sex still 
operated with irrepressible force in his actions and 
attitude. 

He and Riley had spent several weeks in Maine after 
the Summer School closed, and while there Riley had met 
and completely fallen in love with a pretty little girl of 
the innocent-doll kind, a girl whom Brock did not rate 
very high. However, the Irishman had fallen, and when 
they returned to Boston had insisted upon taking Brock 
to meet a friend of his girl’s and- 

“She’s a darlin’!” had been his very first comment after 
the meeting, and Tom agreed that Annette was a darlin’, 
although to himself he said that he would rather Brock 
had not liked the girl so much. But Brock proceeded to 
disregard all of the Irishman’s unspoken wishes, and 
before very long he was spending as much time with 
Annette as Riley contrived to give to her friend, whose 
name was Bernyce Cutler. 

His Ellen-Dora complex was still functioning, but An¬ 
nette so completely occupied his fancy that he once 
more determined to rid himself of Dora and forget about 
Ellen—for, in spite of the fact that he knew Brat and 
Ellen were not so closely bound as they had been, he 
still felt guilty of holding a dishonorable attitude toward 
his friend’s girl. 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


255 


But the problem of Dora was of another hue. Dora, 
perhaps justifiably, had in her mind the idea that event¬ 
ually, when Scotty had finished his college course, they 
would be married—than which of course nothing was 
further from that worthy’s mind. He had finally submit¬ 
ted to continuing his present relationship with her, merely 
to avoid trouble and to keep peace in his affairs. Many 
times, however, they had talked of marriage, she ques¬ 
tioning, trying to find out various things, but Brock 
always took the wind out of her sails by saying frankly 
and bluntly that he did not intend to marry her or any 
one else. The psychology of the situation was simple: 
despite all his protestations, her attitude remained the 
same, her expectations intrigued by what she thought to 
be an attempt on his part to keep her in suspense, and 
their relations continued. All of which would have been 
all right—Brock had long ago decided that Dora was of 
the type that would give what she had to some other man 
if he did not happen to be around; Brock would have gone 
through to graduation, broken off with her and gone 
away, with little or no harm done to any one, had not he 
been so unfortunate as to meet Annette, a younger girl, of 
excellent family, such a girl as he had always imagined 
to exist somewhere, but had never hoped to meet. 

At once he enveloped Annette with all the illusion of 
the ideal as his mind conceived it—the ideal of woman¬ 
hood—with the logical result that upon her seeming to 
respond to his feeling—as any normal girl would re¬ 
spond—his whole attitude toward life began to change. 
Things began to mean something to him. Life was worth 
living after all. It was much as if the corpse in which 
he had been living since his misfortune in the Argonne 
had suddenly had its veins replenished with good blood, 
and its heart stimulated to beat again. 

“Gee, I’ve been a fool, Tom!” he said to the Irishman 
on more than one occasion during the following weeks, 
and the latter invariably wanted to reply that he was now 
a still bigger fool in many ways, but he did not thus 


256 


WILD ASSES 


reply. Brock was as busy as any man could be those 
days, worked hard at his studies, took an active interest 
in the various college activities which were going on, 
found time to take Annette to everything that came along, 
and was insensibly happy. 

Riley watched the proceedings, wondering. He knew 
how things were going, and by what he gathered from 
the remarks made by his Bemyce and by Annette, he had 
a growing suspicion that Scotty was due for a great fall 
if he continued. Opposed to this suspicion was his feel¬ 
ing of gratification, genuine pleasure, over the fact that 
Brock had so changed for the better. By way of compro¬ 
mise, the Irishman succeeded in keeping his suspicions to 
himself, and waited for the developments which he knew 
to be inevitable. 

They were not long in coming. Brock’s affair lasted 
just long enough for the other woman, of whom he had 
been diligently trying to rid himself, to arrive at that 
white heat point of which the poet sang when referring to 
hell as having no furies like a woman scorned. This 
woman was a veritable human fire of fury, and her 
mother, whom she enlisted in her cause because that lady 
had fully expected her daughter to marry Mr. Brocker, 
was almost her equal in the matter of infuriation. It was 
at this unhappy time that the girl with whom Brock was 
genuinely in love met a man whom she liked much more 
than she ever could have liked Brock. Dog-like, Brock 
hung on, and he did so with such often embarrassing 
attentiveness that finally the girl tried to let him down 
easy, by inadvertent remarks about her relations with her 
other man. These remarks did not affect Brock, appar¬ 
ently, until of a sudden they came to him as direct insults; 
the girl made no attempt to conceal her feelings toward 
him; she told him that she could never marry him, that 
he would never probably be able to support a wife as 
he would want to, that they would merely be unhappy 
together, etc., etc. 

That night, after hearing these things all together, 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


257 


Brock went back to Cambridge without a leg under him; 
he bought a quart of moonshine poison, and had con¬ 
sumed almost the entire bottle before he reached the 
rooms, and his faculties were so confused and distorted 
that he could not explain anything to Brat and Riley, 
except to say that “everything’s gone to hell!” 

He finished the quart, and eventually fell into so sound 
a sleep that Brat and Riley undressed him and put him 
into bed, where he remained, unconscious, dead to all the 
world, for better than three hours. Several times, he 
might have recalled later, he heard a ringing of bells and 
a sound of voices, but these were registered in his sub¬ 
conscious mind; his conscious mind was not functioning. 

What these sounds really were, Riley told him next 
morning. The telephone had been ringing all evening 
long, and every time the party at the other end had been 
the same—Brock’s unquenched flame of not so long ago. 
At each ring, Brat or Riley would answer, respectfully at 
first, harshly at the end, and for the ninth time Riley had 
very bluntly informed the lady, just before Brock’s en¬ 
trance, that Mr. Brocker had gone to Europe for the 
winter and would not be back until the following sum¬ 
mer, at least! “And incidentally, I wish you would stop 
calling here at all hours of the night!” Riley had taken 
the pains to tell her. “Mr. Brocker will get in touch with 
you when he hears of this, but he isn’t here now and he 
won’t be here for a long, long time! So get wise to your¬ 
self, and cut out the calling up here!” Riley did not 
mind his language at all. “Rough people require rough 
treatment,” he told Brat after he had hung up the 
receiver. 

After Brock’s return, the woman called four times, and 
four times Riley told her the same thing, to which she 
invariably replied, “Well, I know he’ll be there some 
time tonight, and I intend to call until I find him!” 
“Bang!” Both receivers went down at the same time. 

At four in the morning, Brock’s dreams came to an 
abrupt interruption, and for a moment he could not for 


258 


WILD ASSES 


the life of him tell where he was or why. Then the tele¬ 
phone bell rang, and he recalled that it had been bells 
which had awakened him. So he pulled himself together 
and went to answer it. 

“Hello!” he roared. 

“Is Mr. Brocker there yet, please!” Brock recognized 
the voice instantly. 

“No, Mr. Brocker is not here yet please!” he stated 
emphatically. 

“Well, can you tell me where I can find him?” 

“Mr. Brocker bought a one-way ticket to hell today, 
Madam, and we don’t expect him back!” Brock heard a 
couple of snorts from his roommates who were now 
awake. 

“For God’s sake, Brock, tell that damned fool to quit 
calling up here! It’s four o’clock!” This from Riley. 

Brock thought a moment and then roared into the 
mouthpiece, “Listen, woman, what the hell’s the idea of 
calling us out of bed at this ungodly hour? Brocker 
isn’t here and nobody knows where he is, but if I had my 
hands on you I’d be tempted to twist your neck out of 
shape!” 

“Who is this speaking, please?” The voice was very 
sweet. 

“None of your business!” The voice was rough. 

“Well—just a moment, please?” Brock heard sounds 
as of some one else taking over the phone at the other 
end, and then came a harsh, rasping voice, saying, “Listen 
here! I’m Mr. Brocker’s aunt, and it is very important 
that I find him at once! I don’t want to be insulted by 
you! I want to know where my nephew is!” 

“Your nephew?” Brock laughed aloud. “Say, where 
the hell do you get that stuff, lady? Incidentally, you’re 
a liar!” Brock laughed again, at the thought of such a 
woman being his aunt. 

“I warn you, young man-1” the voice rasped 

shakily. “What is your name?” 

Brock thought for a moment and said, very distinctly, 



THE LAST LONG MILE 


259 


“This is Joe Kline! Anything else you want to know?” 
The name, Joe Kline, was one used by various members 
of the crowd to satisfy telephone callers with whom no 
one wished to talk. 

“Well, Mr. Joe Kline, this isn’t the first time I’ve 
been insulted by you! I’ve talked with you before! 
You’re rude, ungentlemanly, absolutely without honor or 
dencency!” 

“Aw—go to sleep on it, lady! I’m going to hang up!” 

“Well—you can hang up, but I warn you, I’m going to 
report you to the authorities this very day!” 

Bang! Bripazxeng! Both receivers down again. 

Brock crawled back into bed and did not awaken again 
until noon. The first thing he heard was Brat telling of 
a meeting, just a few minutes previously, with the woman 
who had so disturbed their slumbers. “She swears she 
just came from the Dean’s office—she said the Dean 
assured her that Joe Kline would be expelled forthwith 
from the College!” Brat laughed as he described the 
incident. “So poor old Joe is going to get canned!” 

“Poor Joe!” Riley was almost in tears, his grief was 
so acute. “Poor old Joe! Who never harmed a hair 
on any head! Gonna be expelled for insulting the nice 
ladies!” 

When they could calm themselves, Brock was in¬ 
formed of all that had happened. He did not explain 
anything that had happened to him, but, having dressed, 
he put on his hat and departed, without a word to his 
roommates, who stood dumbly looking at the closed door 
through which he had gone. 

They continued to wonder until, about half an hour 
later, Somerford dropped in long enough to say that he 
had just met Brock, with a quart on his hip and a wild 
look in his eyes, headed for Boston. He had stopped 
long enough to declare wildly to Somerford that he 
wished “Christ Almighty would strike me dead on the 
spot!” 

That was all they knew of his activities until three days 


260 


WILD ASSES 


later, when he very sheepishly walked in, looking all of 
ten years older, shaky and nervous from over-drinking 
and other excesses, hardly able to speak above a whisper. 
Riley was alone when he entered, and hardened Irishman 
though he was, he was startled by this ghostlike appari¬ 
tion of his comrade. 

“What—what—what,” he stammered. “Where in the 
name of God have you been, Brock?” 

“I’m married!” announced Brock, weakly, averting his 
gaze, tapping his cane on the floor beside his chair. 

Riley wanted to laugh, but—well, somehow, he just 
couldn’t have laughed at that moment had his life de¬ 
pended upon it. The best he could manage was a sickly 
grin, and to say, “Married? Tell it to the marines!” 
But, for some reason, he felt that Brock was actually 
married! 

“Yeh—married!” replied Brock, lifelessly. 

“So you and Annette have stolen a march on us, eh?” 
Riley still couldn’t smile; he felt that something was 
wrong somewhere, but he was trying to keep from show¬ 
ing it. 

Brock began to laugh—a weirder laugh Riley had 
never heard. It was unnatural, gave him the creeps! 
Such a laugh—and then Brock said, with affected 
bravado, “Annette spurned my honorable attentions! 
I’ve married the bimbo, Dora!” 

“You’re kidding, Brock!” Riley was almost pleading 
with his roommate, hoping against hope that he would 
admit it as that. 

But Brock solemnly shook his head and extended his 
hand, saying, “Not at all! I’ve married the only woman 
I’ve met who doesn’t think of my wooden peg when she 
thinks of me! The rest can all go to hell! Congratulate 
me! ” Again that weird laugh, as Riley took the extended 
hand perfunctorily. 

“God, Brock-” Riley did not know how to say it, 

but finally managed, “I honestly wish you every piece 
of luck in the world! Every damned big and little bit!” 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


261 


Brock’s lips quivered a little as his friend squeezed his 
hand and said these little nothings so earnestly. Riley’s 
lips quivered, too, and he said no more until he had 
walked across the room and lit a cigarette, when he ex¬ 
claimed, with an attempt to assume his usual easy 
manner, “Well it’s damned good to see you again, you 
damned old benedict!” 

Their conversation was not very lively, however, 
despite Riley’s efforts to cheer up his friend. Brock 
talked so queerly, had such a wild look in his eyes, and 
that laugh was too weird for anything! At first Riley 
thought he was drunk, and said as much, to which Brock 
replied that he most certainly was drunk, and expected 
to remain so the rest of his life! With that, Riley gave 
up—he could talk sense to Brock at some later time when 
he was in his right mind. “Let’s take a walk down to the 
Stadium, Brock!” he suggested. “Come on—you need 
the air!” 

So they went for a walk down to the Stadium and along 
the river. Riley smoked innumerable cigarettes, ner¬ 
vously waiting for Brock to explain things to him. But 
Brock explained nothing. He was evidently content to 
walk along quietly, keeping his eyes on everything but 
his companion’s face, and his companion had to succumb 
to the rhythmic crunch-crumpity-crunch beat of Brock’s 
artificial leg, as they walked up the river and back to the 
room. There, Brock gave him a slap on the back, with 
a smile that squeaked and creaked in an inhuman fashion, 
said he would see him on the morrow, and crunch- 
crumpity-crunched off up the street. 

The Irishman stood looking after him, wondering as to 
the cause of this sudden misalliance—and Scotty was so 
weird, so unnatural, so wild-eyed, almost inhuman in his 
talk and appearance. Riley wondered where he had seen 
such looks and heard such speech before—and that 
nervous twitching of muscles and nerve-wrecking solem¬ 
nity of manner! This Brock was like a vision from the 
past—he could almost picture a khaki-clad figure, army 


262 WILD ASSES 

cots, bandages, and many men with an unholy light in 
their eyes! 

That night he heard enough from Bernyce to be able 
to patch up a reasonable explanation for this catastrophe 
which his best of all friends had brought upon himself. 

“Poor old Brock!” he exclaimed over and over to him¬ 
self that night. “Deserves the best and gets the worst!” 

Late that night he told Brat about it, and Brat said 
similarly over and over again, “Brock married to her! 
Poor Brock!” until it seemed to Riley that Brock’s mis¬ 
adventure had gotten under his skin deeper than anything 
that had yet happened to them. As they went through the 
process of undressing for bed, Riley could not talk 
except in curses and Brat could not talk in any kind of 
language. 

Finally, reaching up to turn off the lights, the Irish¬ 
man said, more to himself than to Brat, “Damn!—it looks 
funny not to see old Brock’s leg leaning against his 
chair.” 

Brat would never have noticed such a thing, but now 
he raised himself impulsively on his elbow to look, and 
just as the lights clicked out he saw, with a start, that 
Brock’s leg wasn’t leaning against the chair. 

Some time later—they never knew just what time it 
was—they were startled from sound slumber by the noise 
of a heated argument below their windows. They could 
hear the rhythmic burr-r-r of an automobile which, from 
the sound, was parked near by. Two voices were raised 
in an argument which contained more curses and un¬ 
seemly terms than sensible ideas. 

“-I’ll pay you not a damned cent, sir! Not a 

damned cent! And if you don’t get in there and take that 
damned ark out of my sight and hearing, I’ll crash you 
and it too with this cane—and when I crash ’em, sir— 
they stays crashed!” 

“Nine dollars, you piker, or I’ll get a cop!” 

“Piker? Piker? You-, I’ll kill 

you!” 




THE LAST LONG MILE 


263 


Crash! A cry of a wild man! Broken glass! Curses! 

By this time Riley and Brat were out of bed and at the 
window. “Brock!” exclaimed Riley, as the wild figure 
on the sidewalk swung his cane at the other man’s head 
—missed—crashing through the cab window. “Don’t hit 
him!” he cried again as the taxi-driver stepped in after 
Brock’s wild swing. 

Riley rushed out through the hall and down the stairs, 
landing on the sidewalk just as Brock crumpled in a 
heap beside the cab. The cab driver stood over him as 
if waiting for him to show signs of life before he put 
his foot to him. 

“What the hell’s the matter here?” demanded Riley, 
pushing the driver away and stooping to lift Brock to 
his feet. 

“I rode that damned piker all over Boston and now he 
won’t pay up!” declared the cab driver. “Damned 
drunken bum!” 

Riley was not paying any attention to this explanation. 
He was trying to raise Brock to his feet and finally suc¬ 
ceeded in doing it, although the latter was unable to stand 
without his supporting arm. Riley heard Brat talking to 
the driver and knew that the fare would be paid and the 
driver got rid of. He half carried Brock into the hall and 
up the stairs to their rooms, finally depositing the shak¬ 
ing, jerking, moaning burden on his bed. 

He was completely out of his head. Riley again could 
see the roving eyes in unshaved faces, the army cots and 
bandages—that was it! Scotty had gone fluey—shell¬ 
shock—madness! He began to undress him, almost fight¬ 
ing with him to remove his clothes, and all the while 
Brock continued to moan and cry out in the weirdest of 
tones, cursing some woman as a “dirty cheat!” and again 
as a “slut and a bum!” He raved on and on, cursed all 
womankind as cheats and wenches, trollops and prosti¬ 
tutes, mercenary and designing, untrue, faithless, worth¬ 
less—“damned Dora . . . bed—no lights . . . damned 
automobile salesman!” “Annette—huh—you tincup!— 
Wild asses, ’swhat they all are, Wild Asses!” 


264 


WILD ASSES 


“He’s gone!” Riley told Brat as they tried to undress 
him. And getting worse and worse, Brock continued to 
cry and moan about “these wild asses!” as the night 
wore on. There was no sleeping in that suite that night. 

“Wild Asses! Wild Asses! Dumb, stupid, stubborn, 
craving idol worshippers! Cheaters! Shallow-heads! 
Common animals!” Brock’s fits grew steadily worse. 
For a few moments he would lie quietly, merely moaning. 
Then suddenly he would rear and tear, crying to be let 
loose! “Let me go! Let me go! I want to be away 

from all o’ them! Wild Asses—ha-ha-ha-ha-” and he 

would laugh and cry at the same time, in that weird, in¬ 
human way which sent chills up and down his hearers’ 
spines. 

Brock and Riley attended him throughout the night 
until he finally collapsed from exhaustion. Then they 
went to bed. But their sleep was only minutes long, for 
Brock’s collapse was only momentary. Soon he was at 
it again, growing worse and worse, so bad that his room¬ 
mates were having difficulty in restraining him, and Riley 
was expecting any moment to hear the sound of com¬ 
plaints from other occupants of the building. 

“Gad, he can’t stay like this!” Brat finally declared, 
implying a suggestion by his tone. 

“What the devil can we do?” was Riley’s answer. 

But they could do something else, and at last, when 
Brock showed no signs of coming out of his madness, 
Riley decided to call for assistance, “before it’s too late! 
He’s liable to die like that!” So he called a doctor and 
the doctor came, passed judgment without any delay and 
advised immediate removal to a hospital. 

So Brock went to the hospital, a service-man’s institu¬ 
tion on the other side of Boston, and when he had finally 
been left there in care of several attendants and doctors, 
Brat and Riley were so tired and depressed as to be 
beyond feelings or expression of their feelings if they 
had any. 

They had ridden over in the ambulance. They took a 



THE LAST LONG MILE 


265 


taxi back to Cambridge, and the only words which passed 
between them on that ride were a few reiterations of 
some of Brock’s ravings, Riley taking occasion to say, 
rather lifelessly, “Scotty wasn’t so far wrong about that 
Wild Asses stuff, either!” 

But Brat was beyond agreeing or disagreeing, and 
Riley’s mind was still filled with those damned khaki- 
clad figures whose staring eyes in unshaved faces kept 
up a merry dance across his vision. 

They slept all the morning, but in the early afternoon 
Brat went to football practice, and Riley walked the 
streets trying to decide several problems. In the first 
place, should he or should he not call Dora and take her 
to Brock? Riley’s impulses kept him from calling her; 
his reason and common sense bade him go to her, simply 
because she was, after all, his friend’s wife, and should 
know about her husband’s misfortunes. Finally, he de¬ 
cided to go to her and decide about telling her then. 

“Hello!” said the tousled figure in kimono who re¬ 
ceived him. “I’m glad you came down.” 

Riley thought this a strange welcome for him who 
had always been her enemy, but he explained, “I just 
stopped in to see if Scotty had been here today.” 

“No, he hasn’t!” she declared with emphasis. “He 
came down here last night and I happened to be entertain¬ 
ing an old friend of mine—Scotty was much insulted and 
was absolutely rude to us. Then he beat it, and he 
slammed the door so hard the janitor asked me about it 
this morning—said the neighbors were complaining 
about the noise in here! But-” 

“Didn’t he have any cause to be sore?” asked Riley. 
“Why should he be so upset over your having a friend 
in?” 

“Bless me, I don’t know what’s the matter with him! 
He’s been talking crazy for the last week—ever since that 
night when I called up the rooms for him—remember?” 

“Um-m. Yeh—he’s getting all broken up—guess he’d 
better go up in the country for a while and rest up.” 


266 


WILD ASSES 


“Why, honestly, he’s been awful ever since he came 
back! And always talking about being married! He 
isn’t married at all! But if he doesn’t straighten out 
pretty soon I won’t care if he never straightens out.” 

“And you haven’t seen him today, eh?” Riley was 
thinking fast. He had learned too much to be true—he 
wanted to shout for joy. 

“No, but if you’re going up to the Square and you 
meet him, tell him to come back here! I’ll forget about 
last night—anyway—also tell him to forget that he’s got 
any strings on me! Oh, I’ll tell him! You send him 
back down here! I’ll make him understand that I’m not 
going to sit in here all day and all night waiting for him 
to show up, when I can be having good times with some¬ 
body else—you tell-” 

Riley was not sure, but he strongly suspected that 
Dora’s breath smelled of liquor, and that her frowzy 
state was indicative of there having been some kind of 
a party not many hours before. He finally managed to 
get away from her and walked, mostly on air, back to 
Harvard Square, for he now knew or suspected many 
things which were all pleasant to think about. 

Brock was having pipe-dreams—he wasn’t married at 
all! Riley had not wanted to ask Dora this question 
outright, but he was certain in his mind that Brock and 
Dora were not married. And last night’s affair was 
the result of Brock’s finding Dora with another man—his 
Dora, who had always been his one-woman! And the 
poor son-of-a-gun had gone crazy over that! Cripes, but 
this was a funny life! 

He called the hospital when he reached home and 
learned that Brocker was slightly improved, but would 
not be able to see any one until at least the next 
afternoon. 

So the next afternoon he visited Brock, and found him 
surprisingly sane, but so nervous and erratic that Riley 
felt uncomfortable throughout his visit. The nurse told 
him, on his way out, that “his nerves and his mind” must 



THE LAST LONG MILE 


267 


have been “completely shattered; he still has little spells 
of raving and dreaming out loud; it will be several 
weeks before he will be able to do much of anything, and 
several weeks after that before any mental work would 
be advisable and safe.” 

Back at the rooms that evening, Riley told Brat and sev¬ 
eral others who had dropped in for a call. “And he’ll 
be out of college now for sure! He’s a wreck, honestly— 
gives you the willies to try to talk to him! Only about 
three or four things he said sounded like him: one was 
that he didn’t want to see college again, nor any of us, 
nor Dora, nor anything else connected with his life over 
here! That sounded natural. And, Brat, you know he 
kept harping on this Wild Ass stuff! I can’t imagine 
where he got the idea, but it’s a damned good character¬ 
ization for a lot of people I know!” 

“Why? How do you mean? What the devil is a 
wild ass?” asked McCarthy, one of the callers. 

“Oh, he means that everybody nowadays is an ass: 
stupid, stubborn, uncaring, unheeding animals—asses! 
And the wild asses are all these people who are suffering 
from post-war mania, craving excitements and thrills 
and living their lives as much in imitation of the movie 
stories and heroines as they can! Wild Asses! By Gad, 
it fits a lot of them!” 

“I should say it does!” declared Brat significantly. 

The conversation turned back to the subject of Brock’s 
troubles, and took many avenues, all of which showed 
the sympathy which the crowd had for Brock in his mis¬ 
fortune. 

After the others had gone, Riley discussed more inti¬ 
mately the problems of the situation, ending with his own 
suggestion that they keep from Dora all news of Brock’s 
whereabouts and condition. “If she calls up and you 
answer, tell her you haven’t the least idea where he is— 
say you think he’s gone up in the country somewhere.” 

“But how about his folks?” asked Brat. 

“That’s right, too!” Riley had not thought of them. 


268 


WILD ASSES 


“Well, tell them the same thing—no, tell them he’s work¬ 
ing like the deuce and is only home to sleep! I doubt if 
they’ll call anyway—and I’ll get Scotty to call them up 
as soon as he’s able to talk intelligently.” 

In the days that followed, Dora called often and got 
the results which Riley had planned for her to get. 
Brock’s mother called once, and seemed but little dis¬ 
turbed when informed that Brock spent all his time in 
the library. Riley called upon Brock every day, and 
could see progress and improvement, although Brock’s 
mind still seemed to be impossibly muddled, and he con¬ 
tinued perversely in his anti-social declarations. The 
symptoms of an unsettled mind were all too frequently 
apparent for Riley to miss them, and he was almost 
afraid to mention any one’s name to Brock lest the sug¬ 
gestion throw him into a fit of denunciation and con¬ 
demnation, and thereby upset still more his shaky balance 
of mind. 

Meanwhile Riley’s personal affairs were rather topsy¬ 
turvy, and the fact that Brock’s amoural craft had been 
so shattered and wrecked served to set off in relief the 
apparent success which was marking Riley’s affairs in the 
same direction. He had met “the girl.” Around Bernyce 
he proceeded to wrap his life-long illusions; he exalted 
her to the skies—just as Brock had exalted her friend, 
Annette. But Bernyce sat among the gods and goddesses, 
in Riley’s opinion. She was perfect in his eyes: so 
young as to be free from the tendencies of the times, so 
pretty as to be altogether desirable, so mentally alert 
as to be a constant stimulating force, so sensible, so 
clever, so entirely the girl whom he had subconsciously 
wanted for so long. 

And Riley was his usual self in only one respect—be 
was still incapable of putting into his own affairs the 
ingenuity with which he observed other people and their 
affairs. He proceeded and continued to disregard every 
bit of the habitual Riley sensibleness—he forgot to be 
even observant, or questioning; he accepted Bernyce as 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


269 


he found her and, without asking for directions, or for 
suggestions, or for indications, he imbued her (or his 
illusion of her) with all the traits, qualities, virtues, 
beauties of character and disposition, all the elements 
and phases of character which he unconsciously found or 
had developed in his own mind. He projected his ideas 
of what he thought “the finest girl in the world” should 
be, into this little Bernyce—who was, in at least one 
respect, equal to his conception of her: she was clever 
enough to allow him to shower his affections upon her, 
the “her” which he believed her to be, without doing or 
saying anything that might shatter or dispel his illusion. 
It is indeed a clever girl that knows how far to go under 
any circumstances, particularly when in those circum¬ 
stances she finds herself being made into an idol. 

The inevitable result was that the Irishman was com¬ 
pletely upset most of the time, with his worry over 
Brock’s affairs and his own disrupted tranquillity of 
mind and spirit. Nevertheless time passed; the football 
season drew to a close, despite all the distractions which 
were constantly appearing on his and Brat’s horizon. 
Harvard’s string of victories lengthened; every one should 
have been in good spirits and healthy mind, but of the 
three former inseparables Brat alone seemed to travel 
along serenely. Brock did not improve much after the 
first few days—he still needed something, the same some¬ 
thing which he had needed all through college, and Riley 
was at his wits’ end trying to keep Dora away from him, 
keep his folks from learning of his misfortune, and keep 
Brock interested in something all the time, besides wan¬ 
dering about mentally seeking that something which, he 
felt sure, might bring Brock back to normality and set 
him right on the road to real progress through life. As 
for himself, the Irishman was in the throes of a great 
reform; his whole system of values and his entire attitude 
toward life were undergoing those inevitable, radical 
changes aiming toward bringing him somewhere near the 


270 WILD ASSES 

same level as that on which his Bernyce so placidly and 
sweetly stood. 

Brat, too busy to spend much time with Virginia, and 
hardly bothering with Ellen at all, saw just enough of 
Virginia’s company to stimulate him to the doing of great 
deeds on the Stadium gridiron. He grew tremendously 
that fall, broadened and gained elevation—not in physi¬ 
cal dimensions, but in his mind and emotional equipment. 
Under the infrequent stimulation of Virginia’s vivacious 
treatment, he developed in so many ways that Riley, had 
he not been so busy with himself and Brock, would have 
been surprised and gratified at many changes which were 
apparent in his roommate’s manner and character, all of 
which of course had far-reaching effects upon Brat’s 
football work. 

Whereas in former years he had merely functioned as 
a mechanical cog in the machine of eleven players, he 
now broke out, covered more territory than he was 
expected to cover, worked every second of the time on 
the field, exerted his every energy toward more brilliant 
and effective offensive and defensive play. His friends 
were at first incredulous. The coaches sighed with sat¬ 
isfaction, feeling that their hopes for this big fellow were 
at last being fulfilled. “He’s got it in him—but it has 
taken three years to get it out!” was the opinion given 
by one of the minor directors, a man who had worked 
hard with Brat as a Freshman lineman. 

Steadily as the season wore on, through victory after 
victory, Brat improved and developed his play into 
wider and more effective proportions, and as the Yale 
game approached, he was hailed by coaches, players and 
sports writers as one of the most dependable linemen that 
had ever worn the Crimson; he was looked upon as a 
bulwark for the Harvard cause against Yale’s best team 
in years. The good old Crimson steam roller was going 
at its best—Brown coming to Cambridge the week pre¬ 
ceding the scrap with the Bull Dog Eli, would be taken 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


271 


in stride, without a worry, probably without troubles of 
any kind, even for the second team. 

The Thursday before the Brown game, Riley con¬ 
trived with Brat to get Ellen to visit Brock in the hospital. 
Brat called her on the telephone, made his usual excuses 
for not having called for so long, and then put his room¬ 
mate on the phone. At first Ellen accused him of playing 
a joke on her, but he finally gave several excellent rea¬ 
sons for wanting her to go with him to see Brock, so she 
acquiesced. 

The scene which resulted could not be effectively de¬ 
scribed. Brock, his nerves jumping and his fancies run¬ 
ning wild as the result of his being cooped up so long, 
could not believe his eyes when Ellen walked into his 
room. She came rather timidly forward to greet him, 
and sat beside his bed talking to him, while Riley 
paced the floor and finally found an excuse to leave the 
room. 

Riley never knew exactly how that meeting had come 
off—he had been shaking in his shoes lest Brock fly off 
into the clouds so impossibly that Ellen would be fright¬ 
ened away from him; but—well, anyway, Ellen called 
again the following day, and on the day of the Brown 
game, and almost every day thereafter while Brock was 
in the hospital, just because, as she told Riley, “he’s so 
all alone over there, with no one to entertain him or talk 
to him—and he is such a fine chap!” 

To which, or rather after which, Riley had exclaimed, 
“God, God! will you never cease Your miracles?” It 
appeared to Riley, steeped as he was in his devotion to 
Bernyce, that “one man’s sorrow may sometimes be his 
own salvation!” 

All these things were not indicated, however, that first 
day of Ellen’s interest in Brock. Several other interest¬ 
ing occurrences intervened—for one thing, Riley attended 
the Brown game, and for another, Ellen and Brat and 
Virginia happened to pick just the same hour on the 
same afternoon in which to call on Brock. 


272 


WILD ASSES 


Illusion 

The morning of a football day in the middle of Novem¬ 
ber. Brown and its Bear were in town, with a team which 
had made an enviable record during the season, yet the 
Crimson expected to take the cubs in stride. The ’Varsity 
men were to be saved as much as possible for the clash 
with the Bull Dog on the following Saturday. No chances 
were to be taken. 

Regardless of the form which the Crimson team had 
been showing, there was considerable anxiety in the 
minds of the student followers regarding the outcome of 
the tussle with the Brown Bear. The Providence col¬ 
legians invariably put up a hard fight, and their team 
this year was even stronger than usual. The result was 
that, while the coaches counted upon using mostly a sec¬ 
ond team of Crimson jerseys against them, the student 
body in general expected to see an excellent gridiron 
battle. 

Riley expected to take Bernyce to New Haven the fol¬ 
lowing week, so he counted upon spending the day of the 
Brown game with the boys. As the one o’clock bell rang 
out from the belfry of Harvard Hall, Riley walked out 
of Sever, where he had been attending a lecture, and went 
directly to the rendezvous, where he was greeted by an 
uproarious shout—the boys were three drinks ahead of 
him, and insisted that he catch up before they went any 
further. 

He waved them aside with a queer little smile, and 
afterwards wondered why he had refused them. He 
wanted a drink, but, well—something inside was awry: 
he felt as though he were about to hear some bad news. 

At one-thirty he accompanied McCarthy to a near-by 
lunchroom for a sandwich and coffee. He saw the Square, 
alive with automobiles whizzing to and fro. Pretty 
girls tripped here and there on the arms of studious-look¬ 
ing Sophomores, who looked as if vanity and conceit were 
their chief characteristics. Little ragged Cambridge boys 
were crying their papers (probably picked up in the sub- 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


273 


way entrances). Etruscan and Semitic venders exhorted 
all to “get your winning colors.” Every few minutes a 
new group of enthusiastic fans poured from the rotunda 
and started down Boylston Street toward the Stadium. 
The talented and handsome Cambridge police, assisted by 
State officers, kept a lane open for the pedestrians to 
cross at the Riverway. Fields across the river in Allston 
were already black with cars. Yes, the Brown game was 
an off game, but the crowd turned out just the same. 

Down the street came the Harvard band, led by a little 
urchin with one stocking down, a very dirty face and a 
man’s straw hat. The drum major, with a saving sense 
of the ridiculous, made no attempt to remove the only 
obstacle to his glory, and the crowd grinned sympa¬ 
thetically as the band marched its way across the bridge 
to the gate at the corner of Soldiers’ Field. As they 
reached the ticket gate the little chap was thrust aside, 
and he stood there before the crowd, gazing mournfully 
at his adopted followers as they disappeared into the 
holy of holies. 

Riley and McCarthy went from their lunch to the 
Stadium, where they expected to meet the other members 
of the crowd. Climbing to the entrance at the top of the 
cheering section, they looked about for the others, but 
failed to see them. They waited for a few minutes, but 
seeing the stands were rapidly filling, they decided to get 
two seats for themselves and forget about the others. 
Having found them, they had nothing to do but sit and 
listen to the buzz of conversation around them. Riley did 
not care particularly about talking or listening; he sat 
with his coat collar turned up to his slouch hat, and he 
was so hunched down that his nose was about all that was 
exposed. A casual passer-by would not have recognized 
him, he was so covered and hidden away in his coat and 
hat. Thus he sat, listening now and then to something 
that McCarthy leaned over to say, watching the filling 
stands and the various preparatory doings on the field. 

Of a sudden a bit of conversation came to his ears 


274 


WILD ASSES 


which caused his body to grow rigid, and his wandering 
faculties to come to prompt attention. A voice behind 
him was saying, “Say, Charlie, who was that little lady I 
saw with this Davis friend of yours the other day? We 
were over at that Bohemian joint on Columbus Avenue 
the other night, and this Davis came in with this dame; 
off-hand I should say she’s a wild baby!” 

“Sweet-faced kid?” another voice answered. “Clever 
talker? Smooth line? Acts as if she’s rearin’ to go every 
minute, but sort of restrained withal?” 

“Yeh—that’s the one! Boy, she sure could put away 
the hooch!—and stories—gad almighty! she told a 
couple that would shame even me! Who was she?” 

“Her name is Cutler. She comes from Brookline. 
Bernyce Cutler!” 

“That’s it—Bernyce! I remember now. She knows a 
lot about this place over here. Must know a lot of Har¬ 
vard men.” 

“She ought to! She’s practically engaged to a guy 
over here by the name of Riley—everybody says he’s a 
hell of a nice man, too! Which makes it funny—she’s 
apparently got him feased. Davy tells me she says this 
Riley thinks she’s one of the old-fashioned sweet young 
knitting girls—doesn’t run around at all! Don’t know 
how he ever got that idea—she’s been out with every fel¬ 
low in our bunch; you know, nice kid, just a little wild 
and crazy.” 

McCarthy had begun to pay attention to this conversa¬ 
tion also. He turned, glanced at his companion and said, 
“Don’t pay any attention to that, Tom!” 

“Well, boy, from the way she acted over there, I’d say 
she’s got a hollow leg—she just lapped it up!” 

Riley’s face went white. He recalled some suspicious 
circumstances of a few days previous, circumstances 
which Bernyce had, come to think of it, neglected to ex¬ 
plain. He was looking straight ahead, but the muscles 
of his jaw twitched nervously. 

“Steady, Tom!” admonished McCarthy, watching 


THE LAST LONG MILE 275 

Riley’s face anxiously. “Don’t start a fight here—it 
wouldn’t help any!” 

“All right, Mac,” replied Riley, but his tone quavered 
a bit. He shifted in his seat and continued to look 
straight ahead, but his face was still pale, with little red 
spots under each eye. 

A few moments later the whistle sounded for the start 
of the game. Harvard had chosen to kick off, and the 
husky Crimson back sent a beautifully long and high 
one almost to the Brown goal line. The Brown man who 
received it returned fifteen yards before he was downed 
by a Crimson avalanche. Brown started a march toward 
the Crimson goal, which brought a volley of deafening 
cheers and exhortations from the stands. Harvard finally 
took the hall on downs, and immediately kicked out of 
danger. More cheering. A din of yells and unintel¬ 
ligible sounds as the play see-sawed back and forth across 
the field. The quarter was entirely taken up with these 
tactics. There was no score. 

When the whistle blew for the end of the quarter, 
Riley abruptly arose and said, “I’m going down below 
for a while, Mac—I need a drink, I guess!” and he 
laughed a mirthless laugh with a bitterness that could not 
he concealed. 

“Say! that’s that Riley, right there!” he heard a voice 
whisper behind him, as he started to move out toward the 
aisle; arrived there, he looked back to see the faces of 
the men who had been talking behind him. He recog¬ 
nized both as fellows whom he had often seen about 
Cambridge, but never had known personally. He mut¬ 
tered something under his breath, and began slowly to 
climb the concrete steps. At the entrance he felt some 
one grab his arm, and he looked around to see McCarthy 
beside him. “Listen, Tom,” he said, “forget about that 
stuff! Don’t he like that—honest to God, man, you look 
as pale as a ghost! Sure you’re all right?” 

“Sure.” The Irishman’s voice was low and he tried to 
smile. “Sure—all right, Mac!” 


276 


WILD ASSES 


“You know, Tom-” McCarthy slapped him on the 

back boisterously. “Hell!—look at me! I fall in love 
and out again three or four times a year. It’s good for 
the tortured spirit! Better come back and sit down, 
huh?” 

Riley, however, did not think so. “No—I’ll go down 
and scare up a drink and see you later. I’ll probably be 
right back up. Go on, you’d best chase back or you 
won’t have a seat!” He pulled away, and his companion, 
with a shake of his head, climbed back down to his seat. 
There, he said to himself, “Hell!—he’ll be all right in a 
couple of days—they all learn! That diet was too steady 
for him anyway!” His thoughts were interrupted at that 
moment by the shattering impact of a piercing shriek 
against his eardrum. His neighbor was crying something 
unintelligible about a “hole in that Harvard line a mile 
wide! Take out those rag dolls!” 

McCarthy turned to him and said, loud enough for all 
around to hear distinctly, “Oh, you’re one of these grand¬ 
stand Walter Camps, are you! Well,” as the neighbor 
addressed began to turn away from him, “listen—lay 
dead from now on, or I’ll smother you!” The crowd 
laughed. The sentiment was well expressed, and the 
crowd was with McCarthy so audibly that the raucous 
neighbor subsided without further outbreak. 

Meanwhile, Riley had gained the open field beside the 
Stadium, and was walking slowly across Soldiers’ Field 
and down the speedway drive. He was in a whirl of 
sensations and emotional reactions. He couldn’t have 
said whether he was angry, or just sick with himself. 
Gradually his clarity of vision returned to him—he had 
not had it for many weeks; and he began to arrange his 
ideas and his observations in some kind of order. Vari¬ 
ous little things, tremendously suspicious now that he 
thought of them, bobbed up in his memory. Funny he’d 
never noticed the many references to parties and “affairs” 
by Bernyce’s friends! He began to put two and two 
together, to see incidents which he had previously over- 



THE LAST LONG MILE 


277 


looked now come into the light. He had been a fool— 
must have been! 

Still—why, dammit all, how could any girl be like 
that! Surely—oh, damn! She couldn’t be cheating like 
that all the time—gad, he couldn’t even imagine her 
as doing anything, any of the things which party girls 
so eagerly do! It was incredible—she was so blamed 
sweet, pretty, innocent—unsophisticated in every way—so 
darned girlishly nice—she always seemed to loathe any 
bits of unseemly talk or suggestive lines! It couldn’t be! 
she couldn’t have been playing him dirty all this time! 

He could not make himself believe that Bernyce had 
been cheating—he had somehow always understood that 
she had never gone on any regular parties in her young 
life! Yet—whenever he tried to make himself believe 
that she never had, he was suddenly overcome with 
almost an avalanche of recollections which made such 
implicit trust and faith impossible. Of course it was 
possible—any one might do it; why should he think that 
this girl should be any different from the many others 
whom he had known? He knew them all for double- 
dealers, cheats, absolutely devoid of any sense of fair 
play. But (there was always that “but”). 

“I’ll find that guy tomorrow and punch his head in!” 
he suddenly determined. “I’ll break his face so his 
mother can’t recognize him, the dirty skunk, saying a 
thing like that with a crowd of people listening to 
him! Dirty rat! They probably don’t know her at all! 

But-” Very apparently they did know her—and he 

had heard of this Davis man before. He’d even heard a 
few vague insinuations before. Dammit all!—she was 
just like all the rest! She had been kidding him along 
for all he was worth! 

“Gad, I’m tired, tired! They’re all deceitful- 

Even the little girls in school had been cheats and tattle¬ 
tales. He tried not to think of it any more. He turned 
back up the drive toward the bridge. Flinging himself 
upon a bench outside the fence of the Stadium grounds 




278 


WILD ASSES 


he gazed across the river. It was growing darker. 
Lights were popping on here and there in the half-dark¬ 
ness of the opposite bank. 

Finally he pulled himself together and walked across 
the bridge, stopping at the Cambridge end to look back 
at the Stadium whence were emanating many cheers and 
yells. The great bowl of a place was melting black 
against the deepening gray of the twilight. He could see 
the tiny flames of smokers’ matches being struck in the 
colonnades and below, flashing like fireflies in the cool 
fall air. A few straggling early-leavers, laughing and 
talking, passed him, and after a few moments he joined 
the growing throng wending its way up to the Square. 
He walked slowly, with his collar up and his hat pulled 
down, his shoulders hunched forward and his hands 
plunged deep into his coat pockets. Around him was 
much chattering, much laughing, much giggling, much 
talking, much whistling, much happiness and hearty joy¬ 
fulness. “Gad, what ado about nothing!” he thought. 
“All over something that doesn’t mean anything! A 
damned fine pure black world to live in!” 

Eventually he arrived at the rooms, and opening the 
door, a wave of peacefulness seemed to come over him. 
Such a home, this—four walls within which he could 
always be at peace with himself! Some one had left a fire 
in the fireplace, and he pulled up a chair and dropped 
listlessly down, gazing entranced into the light yellow 
darts of flame which persistently sprang up from the 
embers that crackled and popped disquietingly, almost 
irritating his peace and calm. He finally took off his 
coat and began to pace back and forth, back and forth, 
before the fireplace. 

One thing, one thought, was uppermost in his mind: 
he had made every effort, done everything, absolutely 
every possible thing, to play the game square with this 
girl who seemed so worth doing everything for, this 
adorable Bernyce! Knowing that, how could she cheat 
on him? Why couldn’t she play fair? Damn. Damn. 


THE LAST LONG MILE 279 

Damn. Damn. Damn! Not even decent! Just like all 
the rest! 

He went to the closet and took out a bottle and a glass, 
poured a stiff drink, and made a terrible grimace in 
swallowing it. Rotten stuff—but good enough! Another. 
Not so bad. Another and another. Ah, God—sweet 
dreams! “Oh, fancy! Lead me!” Up and down, up 
and down, hack and forth he paced the room—at first 
steady and controlled, but gradually with a noticeable 
staggering motion. At last he slumped again into the 
chair, setting the bottle on its arm beside him. 

He began to wonder vaguely what would happen if he 
were to drink and drink and drink, every day, on and on 
until he died—not a bad idea, at that! Probably have a 
hell of a time! Damned nice to he able to find such a 
refuge always handy! This liquor stuff’s pretty good 
dope after all! Good old friend, liquor—never deserts 
a man when the roof begins to crack and cave in! Always 
there—good old reliable refuge! 

Suddenly he grasped the bottle tightly and stood up. 
“Bet she’s laughing at me now, the rat!” He hurled 
the half-filled bottle into the fire; it shivered to pieces 
against the wall of brick; the crash brought him to his 
senses for a moment. “Damned fool, Tom Riley! Noth¬ 
ing hut a kid! Grow up! Snap out of it! Cut out the 
melodrama! Huh—there’s many another one worse off 
than you, you poor damned fool! What did that poet 
Houssman say?- 

‘Think I the round world over what golden lads are low, 
With hurts not mine to mourn for and shames I shall 
not know! 

What evil luck soever Fate holds for me in store, 

I know much finer fellows have fared much worse be¬ 
fore!’ 

“Just like that—quote poetry by the hour! You’re pretty 
good man, Tom! Always pattin’ yourself on the back, 
too!” 


280 


WILD ASSES 


He laughed, with abandon—laughed until he cried! 
It was such a hell of a good joke! Everything was a hell 
of a joke! He wasn’t the only damned fool in the world! 
Hell, no! He’d known much finer fellows who’d fared 
much worse than he! Even the Greeks—bet old Vulcan 
felt like hell when he made the trap that caught Venus 
and Mars in bed! Even the gods! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—ho- 
ho-ho-ho—a hell of a joke, sure ’nough! 

Guess he ought to write a letter—write a letter to Ber- 
nyce, and tell her just what he thought of her! Could 
write a letter better than he could tell her to her face—he 
wouldn’t be able to think of everything while he talked 
to her. He walked over to his desk and sat down heavily 
in the chair. He intended to write the letter, but he had 
to pick up and examine every pencil, notebook, paper 
and other article on the top of his desk—had to look 
everything over before he could write. So he looked 
everything over, and eventually his hand found a letter, 
and he read his own name on it. Looked like Brock’s 
writing—damned good writer, Brock—one thing he 
could do well! Mechanically he opened the end of the 
envelope and unfolded the note inside—again that awful 
feeling as if some bad news were just around the corner 
of his mind. Gradually he began to read the note before 
him, pronouncing every word and wetting his lips after 
every phrase: 

Dear Tom: 

Have been trying to get you on the phone this morn¬ 
ing but got no answer. I want you to come over here 
again as soon as you have time. I want to know just 
what the hell you’re getting me into; I ought to break 
your head! you’re always getting me into something. 
I was perfectly satisfied to tell the world to go to hell 
when you brought Ellen over here; now, well—you 
know this damned fool! 

Now I can’t do anything! If you weren’t so damned 
busy with your women! You’re just like all the wild 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


281 


asses! Chasing all over hell after thrills and excite¬ 
ments! If you weren’t so busy you would come over 
here and talk things over with me—I’m all cured now; 
I think I got everything out of my system, thank God. 

But what am I going to do? I won’t be able to come 
back to college, so I’ve got to get a job—and also, 
how the heck am I supposed to feel and act toward 
Brat’s girl? Snap out of it now and come over here! 

Yours till I run in a Marathon! 

Scotty. 

It took several minutes for the drift of the letter to sink 
into Riley’s befuddled mind, and then he got everything 
from the letter but what Brock intended. The whole let¬ 
ter just served to bring to his mind Brock’s bucket of 
troubles, as it had been since Riley met him, full to the 
brim. Seeing which now, he suddenly had a clearer 
vision of his own troubles. 

Poor old Brock! There can’t be a God in heaven when 
a good fellow like Brock is continually going to hell! 
Deserves the best and always gets the worst, all the way 
through! Odd how things go—Brock sailed along for 
three years with only that one upset, and then came to 
this mess; why couldn’t he have stuck it out till he got 
his degree anyway? Everything was all right until he 
met that damned little Annette! A redhead! Made a 
wreck out of him! A red-headed wench—thought she 
was so damned good, so damned proud of herself—wasn’t 
fit for Brock to wipe his feet on! A fox-bitten party girl! 
And Bernyce—Bernyce probably just like her! Why the 
devil hadn’t he seen the signs before? 

Riley laughed a healthy laugh now. Oh, what a fool 
he’d made of himself! He, Tom Riley, had been so fool¬ 
ishly self-confident as to think that any girl whom he 
worshipped ought ipso facto to be an angel! When, look 
at poor Brock—a damned sight better man than he; why, 
uh—“I’ve known much finer fellows have fared much 
worse before!” 


282 


WILD ASSES 


“Poor old Brock! What the hell am I crying about? 
What have I to kick about? Serves me right for plunging 
into something I ought to know enough not to plunge into 
—pouring out my life’s emotions without ever trying to 
find out whether the object would meet my demands!” 
He was talking aloud to himself now, trying to clarify his 
affairs in solid sounding words that he could hear; if he 
could hear them he’d remember them, and he wanted to 
settle this thing for once and all. “What am I kicking 
about? I’ve got everything—everything that many thou¬ 
sands would give their eyeteeth to possess! I am stupid if 
in a time like this I cannot find a refuge in my own 
mind, in satisfactions which come not from sensory 
stimulations!” 

“Artemis! What was it Euripides has Hippolytus say? 

‘Ah, perfume-breath celestial! mid my pains 
I feel thee, and mine anguish is assuaged. 

Lo, in this place the Goddess Artemis!’ 

Old Euripides had the dope—that’s what intelligence and 
knowledge are for—a refuge, a consolation, a backbone, 
a reservoir of stamina and strength! I ought to be happy 
in having such a thing—thousands and thousands haven’t 
it.” 

He was relieved, consoled, almost happy that the strain 
of other-selfishness under which he had been for the past 
weeks was now dissolved. He felt more like himself, he 
could look at everything with his old laugh again. He 
could look at everything—why, he could even look at 
the pure, sweet face of Bernyce, and say to himself, 
“Just like all the rest—just an animal underneath—not 
worth bothering with unless she wants to give herself 
. . .” etc. 

He could laugh now, and suddenly he found himself 
repeating other lines from Euripides’ “Hippolytus”: 

“Why hast thou given a home beneath the sun, 

Zeus, unto woman, specious curse to man?” 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


283 


He laughed—that old Greek said a mouthful there. Zeus 
ought to answer that somehow; perhaps as one author 
said, “There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough- 
hew them how we may!” That was a good thought, too 
—the women can’t help it that they are women, but the 
world would no doubt be better off without them. 

It was all so funny. Riley laughed as he thought of 
other phrases and eternal sayings which were appropriate 
to his present state of feelings. Again he quoted Euri¬ 
pides, 

“Curse ye! My woman-hate shall ne’er be sated 
Not though one say that this is all my theme: 

For they be ever strangely steeped in sin. 

Let some one now stand forth and prove them chaste, 
Or leave me free to trample on them ever.” 

Another good way of putting it. “Guess I’ll be a misogy¬ 
nist!” laughed Riley. “Might as well be a misogynist! 
And a polygamist! That would be good—have no use 
for women except for immediate temporary satisfac¬ 
tions!” 

Thus his thoughts ran, on and on—and thus his friends 
found him when they came in later in the evening. Mc¬ 
Carthy found him so light-hearted and happy that he 
could not believe his senses of sight and hearing. Riley 
welcomed him with open arms, and began at once to talk 
about the prospects for a party; but his prospects fell 
short; there was just one quart of liquor in the crowd 
and every one was financially punctured, so Riley had 
to be satisfied with a couple of drinks and an early 
retiring. 

Next day he saw Bernyce, but he was not the man 
whom she had come to know: he was his old cynical, 
clear-sighted self again, and now that his eyes were 
opened he saw through her flimsy affectations, her fabri¬ 
cations and artifices, her insincere pretensions, through 
them to her genuine, insignificant, selfish little self. He 


284 


WILD ASSES 


was at his best, his wit, his sarcasm, his ridicule, his 
incisive verbal thrusts made a wreck of this pretty little 
creature who thought she was so clever, but really was 
so foolishly dumb and stupid. Yes, Riley made quite a 
thorough job of it, so thorough indeed that when he had 
finished he was as sorry for her in her foolish little shell 
of superficiality as he was glad for himself that he had 
been able so to see through her. 

And all this happened within a few hours after he had 
attended the little church across the street from his rooms, 
for whatever strength of purpose he did not receive from 
his reservoir of intelligence during his cogitations on 
Saturday night, he absorbed from the religious services 
on Sunday morning—“that’s what religious services are 
for,” he very frankly admitted. 

At any rate, he neglected to make any arrangements for 
Bernyce to accompany him to New Haven the following 
week-end. He went with a crowd of fellows, and cheered 
himself hoarse as he watched his roommate play the best 
game of his college career, for Brat lived up to expecta¬ 
tions by giving more than he had to give in helping Har¬ 
vard to one of her greatest victories over the Eli. And 
so happy for his roommate was he that Riley almost 
forgot about the troubles of the world as they had come 
to Brock and himself. The Irish iconoclast was once 
more the smiling knocker that he had always been, and 
his friends were glad to welcome him back as such. 

Blood Sometimes Tells 

Riley had many reasons for being happy at the Yale 
game. One afternoon earlier in the week he had gone to 
see Brock, and many pleasantly disturbing developments 
had been revealed to him. 

First he learned that the cause of his roommate’s hur¬ 
ried letter lay in the fact that Ellen seemed to enjoy com¬ 
ing to the hospital, and that therein lay the cause of 
Brock’s perturbation: he was still thinking of Brat and 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


285 


although he knew that Brat saw much of Virginia’s com¬ 
pany that fall, he did not know just what the arrange¬ 
ment between him and Ellen really was. He felt uneasy 
about it, but this had not deterred him from inviting 
Ellen, with much genuine fervor, to call again as soon as 
possible, and then to come as often as possible after that. 

Riley did not know any more about Brat’s affairs than 
did Brock, but he suspected that everything was turning 
out much better than even he would have expected. How¬ 
ever, while they were talking about this and other mat¬ 
ters, particularly the problem of Brock’s coming back to 
college at the Mid-Year, another visitor was announced; 
when the door opened to admit them, Riley was surprised 
to see, not Ellen, but Brat, and with him was Virginia, 
carrying a huge floral donation toward Brock’s comfort. 

“Sorry we haven’t been over before, Scotty,” explained 
Brat, “but this is the first afternoon for weeks that we’ve 
had less than three hours’ work.” 

“Forget it!” exclaimed Brock, delighted over these 
visitors. “Sit down—let’s hear the hero speak! And 
how are you, Virginia?” 

“Terrible! Simply terrible! I’m looking for a good 
substantial man who will pay some attention to me! 
Brat hasn’t the time! That’s why I’ve brought these 
flowers—I thought that perhaps you might be interested, 
Scotty.” She affected a pout in Brat’s direction, and 
they all laughed—this was the sort of thing which really 
captivated Brat; Virginia was continually digging him 
in the ribs after this fashion, and he liked it. 

They talked then about football, college, Scotty’s 
plans. Brat sat by the bed smiling but not talking much; 
Riley and Virginia kept up a steady fire of repartee 
across the person of Brock, who now and then managed 
to get in a comment on the subject under discussion. 

Finally, Virginia suddenly recalled having an engage¬ 
ment which she positively could not ignore, so she and 
Brat, with much flurry and hurry on her part, and with 
the many conventional protestations to Brock, departed, 


286 


WILD ASSES 


Virginia laughing and talking as they passed out of the 
room, and Brat beaming with joy over her verbal attacks 
upon him. 

A moment after the door closed behind them, it 
opened again to admit another visitor, Ellen. 

Riley noted the expression of his friend’s face at the 
moment; there was a very noticeable lighting up of his 
features as he called to her, “Hi-lo, Ellen! thought you 
were lost today!” 

And Ellen smiled and spoke to him, saying very 
calmly that she had just met Brat and Miss Somebody- 
or-other in the hall. 

“Brat introduced us, but I didn’t catch the name— 
what is it?” she asked, smiling as if it mattered not at 
all to her, and then, when they told her Virginia’s name, 
she capped it all by saying with surprising sincerity, 
“She’s terribly sweet—Brat’s taste seems to have im¬ 
proved!” And she managed to laugh at her own expense, 
and laughed again when Riley and Brock both protested 
against her last statement. 

Brock and Riley were glad to have something to laugh 
and joke about; after hearing that Brat and Virginia had 
walked into Ellen, neither knew just what to say or do. 
Riley thought to himself that there was something queer 
about the whole business, and Brock, after the first 
moments, was ashamed of himself for rejoicing over this 
meeting; but he couldn’t help rejoicing, regardless of the 
shamed part of his feelings. 

Shortly after Ellen’s coming, Riley contrived an ex¬ 
cuse for leaving, saying naively, “You aren’t coming in 
town now, are you, Ellen?” To which the only reply 
possible was “No.” 

She did not go in town until much later, and when she 
did her thoughts were of everything but Tom Riley. She 
had noticed Brat and Virginia before they saw her, and 
had noticed particularly Virginia’s manner and the very 
obvious way in which she dominated Brat, who with 
equal obviousness, enjoyed her domination. Ellen noticed 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


287 


these features, but could not for the life of her recall 
whether Brat seemed flustered at their meeting or not— 
she decided that he had not. 

The result of her thinking was, that the day before the 
football team left for New Haven, Ellen came to Cam¬ 
bridge to meet Brat, after a telephone call from her had 
arranged the meeting, the course of which meeting went 
much as Ellen had expected it to go. In the end, after 
very frank and sincere talking on Ellen’s part and no 
denials or counter suggestions from Brat, their lifelong 
taken-for-granted engagement was finally and definitely 
declared undesirable, unsatisfactory and unnecessary. 
They parted that evening with just as much—perhaps 
more—genuine regard for each other than they had ever 
experienced before—it was a case of separation bringing 
them closer together, paradoxical as that might seem. 

For all of which there was reason and explanation in 
plenty, but for the feeling which had so suddenly come 
about between Ellen and Brock, there was not so easy 
an explanation. There is no explaining, no accounting 
for a person’s loves. There are those who chant about 
“propinquity,” “matter of habit,” “mutual helpfulness,” 
and other plausible explanations, each of which may 
apply to some particular case; but the case of Ellen and 
Brock was counter to all of these. They had met not 
more than half a dozen times, and those times were col¬ 
ored by the fact that Ellen was, to all appearances and 
to all intents, the girl of his friend. True, Ellen was the 
physical image of Dora, and Dora had had a great influ¬ 
ence upon Brock, in spite of her lack of the finer virtues 
of women. Then, too, there may have been the much 
talked of reaction on Ellen’s part to discovering actually 
that her lover from boyhood was so obviously happy in 
the company of another girl; the story books are full of 
marriages resulting from this “woman spurned” reaction, 
but Ellen and Brat, as was said before, were brought 
much closer by their separation. 

Some of the ancient Greeks held to a theory that origi- 


288 


WILD ASSES 


nally the unit of human life was a being composed of 
man and woman, this man-woman having four hands, 
four feet, two heads, and being perfectly coordinated and 
agreeable throughout its dual system. These beings were 
so integrally well made that they had nothing to occupy 
their natural antipathies and oppositional feelings, with 
the result that eventually they became so restless that 
they threatened to roll up Mount Olympus and destroy 
the gods who basked in the mountain-top sunshine there. 
The gods, being all-powerful, took counsel among them¬ 
selves as to what should be done about this danger, and 
it was finally decided that the best procedure would be 
to separate each of the human beings into a man and a 
woman, the idea being that once separated their lives 
would consist of a process of seeking for their lost halves, 
and they would thereby be prevented from even thinking 
about defying and destroying the gods. So, said the 
Greeks, every man goes through life looking for the 
woman who was cut away from him by the gods, and 
every woman likewise seeks her man; sometimes the two 
original, congenial, perfectly-suited parts succeed in find¬ 
ing each other, and a perfect unit of human happiness 
results. 

Perhaps this was the case in the love which so spon¬ 
taneously developed between Brock and Ellen; at any 
rate they did not lose much time with non-essentials and 
little provocations, and once Brock learned of the break 
between Ellen and Brat, his joy knew no dimensions. 

Ellen was not really sorry about Brat—she was genu¬ 
inely glad over his apparent happiness, but she also 
was glad, perfectly happy herself, over the sincerity and 
wholeheartedness which Brock evidenced toward her; 
this was so unlike the treatment to which a lifelong en¬ 
gagement to Brat had accustomed her. There are thrills 
left in this human society, and Ellen was enjoying them, 
in the healthy, wholesome way of which she was bred to 
be capable. 

She cared for Brock because she could and did help 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


289 


him—it may be true that we love those for whom we do 
the most! Ellen did and enjoyed doing everything pos¬ 
sible for Brock’s comfort and happiness, and Brock, 
unable to reciprocate in kind, did the best he could to 
meet her at the half-post. The Greeks were probably 
more right than wrong in their theory—some marriages 
must have been made in heaven! 

Applied Psychology 

So Riley had been happy at the Yale game, and not 
without reason. The last football season of their college 
days had passed to an end in a blaze of Crimson glory, 
and Riley was almost bursting with pride over his room¬ 
mate’s success on the football field. Brat was more or 
less content with the way things were going, almost 
admitting to himself that he thought much more of Ellen 
now that he did not have to look forward to marrying her. 
It is perfectly possible for an excellent man to feel toward 
an excellent woman in such an apparently ignoble way, 
as the sophisticated Irishman might have said. Brat and 
Riley were more than ordinarily congenial companions 
during all this time of Brock’s absence, it being mutually 
taken for granted that the Irishman was to browbeat and 
criticize Brat in no too-nice terms about the various things 
of their life, and that Brat was to do just as he pleased 
regardless of all Riley’s talking. That was a very con¬ 
genial understanding. 

Brock was absent many weeks, so many indeed that he 
was fast becoming just a memory with his old crowd. At 
first most of the fellows, hearing of his troubles, ex¬ 
pressed sincere and wholehearted regret at his breaking 
up, but the fact that they had been expecting some unfor¬ 
tunate end for him made their reaction at the time not so 
noticeable. When they first learned that he had gone 
completely to pieces, mentally speaking, they concluded 
that at last he had given up the fight, as he had so often 
said he would. They took it for granted that he was 


290 


WILD ASSES 


“done for” as far as College was concerned—yet they all 
realized the tragedy of his case, in spite of the fact that 
tragedies near at hand are seldom appreciated. 

The dramatists and dramatic critics say that the line 
between tragedy and farce is a very thin one—that things 
and incidents very obviously tragic in so far as emotional 
effectiveness goes, can be made ridiculously farcical by 
a few slight twists. In Brock’s case this seemed true, after 
a fashion. Here was a tragedy close at hand, the tragedy 
of a young man who had served his country with distinc¬ 
tion and honor, of a keen mind and profound capacity 
for achievement; a young man altogether promising, who 
had come to an ignoble end. His going to the hospital 
a madman was, in the eyes of his younger friends, the end 
of all these things of promise. 

It was inevitable that some one should stoop to face¬ 
tiousness in discussing his case. That one was Maun, 
and his facetiousness broke out at a very inopportune 
time. Maun was rather sour on the world in general by 
the end of the football season—he had not made his let¬ 
ter; and especially was he riled against the “system” of 
“blue-blooded aristocracy” which he had as he thought 
come up against. It was quite natural in view of this 
that, in speaking of Brock’s breaking up, he should re¬ 
mark, “Yeh—Brocker was a blue-blood! And ‘Blood 
will tell!’ he always said!” 

Hearing this from Maun, Riley should have known 
that it was caused by Maun’s grudge against the aristoc¬ 
racy of the college. Indeed, he did not at once react to 
it, but when he heard some one laugh a moment after 
the remark was made, he saw red with all the courage 
and conviction that were in him. 

“That’s a dirty crack, Maunstein, and you know it!” 
he exploded, his face purple with outraged feeling. “You 
ought to he ashamed of yourself—a great healthy hulk 
like you saying a thing like that about Brock! You 
know damned well that Brock’s as blue-blooded as they 
make ’em, but you also know damned well that he’s a 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


291 


white man such as it’s given damned few people to know! 
Blood will tell! Dammitall if he had been born of the 
scum he would have succumbed long ago to living his life 
with that damned trollop who always took advantage of 
his discouragement and discontent! You know that you 
have no cause to say anything disparaging about Scotty! 
You, nor any one else around here!” 

Maun tried to explain by saying, “I merely repeated 
his own words—you’ve heard him say time and time 
again, ‘Blood will tell’.” 

“I don’t care a damn if he did say it! All right—for¬ 
get it! He’s had some tough breaks, and they were breaks 
which your head wouldn’t have stood without cracking!” 

“Maybe so,” admitted Maun, readily enough; “I didn’t 
mean anything disparaging, Tommy—hell, I know Scotty 
was true blue through and through!” 

“All right,” submitted the Irishman, calming down 
considerably; “I didn’t know from the way you said it. 
I’ve heard a lot of funny cracks around different places 
about Brock, and they’re beginning to get under my skin! 
I’m not listening to any more of them without an argu¬ 
ment, even if the man is three times my size!” Riley 
was still belligerent, adding the last clause as an after¬ 
thought upon looking at the towering frame of Maun 
beside him. However, the argument died there, and 
Riley had no further cause for indignation, because 
gradually the whole incident of Brock’s mishap became 
to almost every one a fading memory, there being so 
many incidents from day to day to occupy their minds. 

For the most part Riley was his old self again. He 
was, as he often said with affected solemnity, “A student 
of society”—everything interested him, chiefly perhaps 
because in nine cases out of ten he could find something 
wrong or something to criticize. He was forever thinking 
and talking: his life was made up of it. He was an 
unscientific psychologist in that respect. He was con¬ 
vinced also that no one knew definitely what the whole 
business of living was about or toward, and therefore no 


292 


WILD ASSES 


one could explain it to him, all of which conviction 
caused him much worry. He wanted to know the “why” 
of everything, to find the reasons for people’s conduct, 
for customs and habits and social practices; in short, he 
wanted to know, as he put it, “Just what the hell I’m 
here for and what I’m going to do about it!” 

This was a development of his former attitude toward 
college and life in general. Now he observed everything 
and noted every little incident, wondering at all times 
how these things could fit into his general scheme of 
existence and society. And he found no answers to his 
questionings. 

In spite of this attitude, however, he did not become a 
bore or a chronic obstructionist, obstinate and stubborn 
in his line of thinking. He was merely developing along 
a natural line, trying to satisfy the curiosity with which 
God had endowed him. Otherwise he was the same good 
fellow, ready to go on a party at any hour day or night, 
liked by every one who knew him, respected much more 
than he dreamed by many of the snobs whom he most 
belabored. 

And he was forever doing things, looking for things to 
do, or patching up things which had already been done. 
It was in this spirit that he broached the subject of an 
experimental party to Brat. “I’d like to see,” he ex¬ 
plained, “just what effect and counter-effect a party of 
you and me with Virginia and Georgia would have. Vir¬ 
ginia is the typical sweet young thing looking for experi¬ 
ence and excitement, just curious enough about things to 
run along the precipice that hangs over trouble. Georgia, 
on the other hand, is the typical party girl—she’s seen all 
there is to see, knows no inhibitions or moral laws what¬ 
soever, is ready to go the limit as a matter of course be¬ 
cause it’s part of the game as she understands it.” 

“I don’t like the idea,” said Brat, still wondering as 
to exactly what his roommate meant by his description of 
Virginia. “That’d be a hell of a party!” 

“I don’t know as it would!” Riley knew that Brat 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


293 


would go if he kept at him. “I’d like to get them together 
with a few drinks, just to see how they react to each other. 
They’d get along all right, I’d bet.” 

After much talking, Brat was persuaded to call up 
Virginia and make his arrangements with her, after which 
Riley got in touch with Georgia, whom he had not seen 
for many weeks. The party was arranged, and later that 
same evening the four met in a grill booth at a downtown 
hotel. 

To all appearances the two girls were neither impressed 
nor unimpressed with each other. Georgia and Brat 
were rather distant for a long time, until several drinks 
had been consumed, when Brat’s very evident desire to 
be friendly finally had a similar effect upon the pretty 
blonde. Virginia entered into the spirit of the evening 
without preliminaries, danced recklessly, smoked, joked 
and was altogether as frivolous as she knew how to be, 
and, as soon as she discovered that Georgia and Brat had 
at one time known each other, began to make Brat’s life 
miserable in those many little ways which have in the 
course of history made the female of the species more 
deadly than the male. Before the evening was over she 
had made Brat quite uncomfortable, but his discomfort 
was reflected in a strange manner—he thrived on just the 
treatment which she was giving him. It was by this 
method that she most easily got under his skin, and he 
liked and wanted her all the more on account of it. 

Riley came to the conclusion early in the evening that 
his experiment was not working out toward any evidence 
which might lead to conclusions, and at last he managed 
to turn the conversation into a channel which, he thought, 
might produce some results of interest. 

He began by making some facetious reference to the so- 
called “flapper philosophy” which was at the time so 
much discussed. This should lead to something, he 
thought, being certain in his mind that both Virginia 
and Georgia included themselves in the genus flapper. 
“Speaking for yourself,” he suggested, “Virginia, what is 


294 WILD ASSES 

your idea of the philosophy of the flapper—what’s her 
idea anyway?” 

Virginia thought for a moment, trying to make some 
witty rejoinder, but finally said, “Oh—I don’t know 
exactly how to define it, but the main idea is to ‘have as 
much fun as you can before you die or grow old’.” She 
laughed, looking at Georgia as she added, “Isn’t that 
about it, Georgia?” 

Georgia remarked that some such idea was the root 
of it all, “But,” she went on, “what difference does it 
make—names don’t make any difference. No matter 
what you call a thing, the thing remains the same. 
People do the same things no matter what they are 
called.” Georgia had a hazy idea of what she meant, 
but couldn’t explain her meaning. 

“We’d best have another drink,” suggested the Irish¬ 
man, smiling. So they had another drink, after which 
Riley interested the others in studying the other couples 
scattered around the room. 

“Oh—there’s a man I know,” exclaimed Virginia, 
pointing with her eyes in the direction of a table not so 
far from their booth. Then, dropping her voice, she 
added, “He’s a married man, but that isn’t his wife! I 
guess he’s a high stepper! ” 

“From the looks of his fair companion, I should imag¬ 
ine that he is a high stepper,” commented Riley. “There’s 
something that goes against my grain, frankly!” 

Both girls looked at him and Virginia asked, “Why you 
poor old dear, what goes against your grain, as you 
call it?” She smiled devilishly at this last phrase. 

“Why, just that—a man who can’t be satisfied with his 
wife, but has to go chasing off with some other woman! 
I haven’t any use for a married man or a married woman 
who does that sort of thing!” 

“Well, if it’s fair for one it’s fair for the other,” was 
Georgia’s comment. “I know a lot of women who would 
be crazy if they couldn’t go out with other men.” 


THE LAST LONG MILE 295 

“You think it’s all right—it’s playing fair?” asked 
Riley. 

“Why, of course,” broke in Virginia, impatiently; “you 
are too old-fashioned, Tom! It is not only all right; it 
is right. And it’s also right for women to do just as 
they please, just as the men do!” 

“You have faith in the double standard of morals, I 
see,” laughed Riley. “I suppose you think that a single 
standard of morals would be the ideal thing, eh?” 

Virginia and Georgia agreed that if it was all right for 
men to sow wild oats, it should be all right for girls to 
do the same. 

“Which is all very well, you know,” the Irishman said, 
“except for the fact that it doesn’t exist and never can 
exist—the single standard is impossible! You can talk 
all you want to about it, but the fact remains that if a 
girl goes the limit and gets caught, she’s cooked, so to 
speak! Theoretically, girls can do whatever they want 
to do, but actually they can’t—because if they do, they 
pay about ten times over for it. That’s a fact, and you 
know it!” 

The two girls admitted that it was a fact, but a terribly 
unfair arrangement, and this admission was the cause of 
Riley’s fall; he began to talk on one of his favorite 
themes, the theory of compensation, as applied to a 
girl’s conduct. 

“There’s just the point of your flapper philosophy,” 
he began. “The flapper is trying to live out the single 
standard, and it can’t be done, without much suffering 
in the end. It is a stupid theory, all round—it’s like hid¬ 
ing one’s head in the sand and feeling safely hidden from 
wind and rain.” 

This broadside, a mild rebuke at best, caused both 
girls to retort in a very heated fashion. Riley was old- 
fashioned, prudish, unfair, selfish—indeed, before they 
finished with him he was nothing at all. 

Yet he went on, analyzing their feelings, tearing them 
apart, breaking down their arguments and superficial 


296 


WILD ASSES 


generalities on life, until finally he almost wrecked the 
party by specifically applying the laws of compensation 
to them and their friends. “Look around you, now—in 
all seriousness, think of all your friends and acquaint¬ 
ances and see if they don’t fit into these categories. First, 
there’s an old law of life which, as expressed by Emerson, 
says that if you want something, pay the price and take 
it. That means simply that if you as a girl crave some 
pleasures which seem to be forbidden you, you can 
always get those pleasures if you pay the price for getting 
them—perhaps that price is loss of prestige, good name, 
health, peace of mind, or any other of many things—but 
you must pay, sooner or later, for everything you get!” 

“Now wait a minute,”—as Virginia started to inter¬ 
rupt. “That isn’t the main thing. Just see how that 
applies. Think of your friends and see how it works 
out.” 

But Virginia would not even attempt to think about 
such a thing. “What has that to do with the double 
standard of morals?” she demanded. 

“Why, everything—you girls are born into a condition 
of life which qualifies you to sit on a pedestal and receive 
the plaudits and adoration of us poor men; if you want 
to do the things which are implied under the single 
standard, you immediately come down off that pedestal 
whereon you were born to sit. You pay in that way! 
Of course, that’s a generalization, but it invariably 
applies! Men live by women if-” 

“Well, I don’t see the point,” countered Virginia. 
“Girls have to do something—the flapper might as well 
be a flapper as anything else!” 

“I haven’t anything against flappers,” laughed Riley, 
“except the very common characteristic of them—they 
all try to assume an attitude of wisdom toward life. Every 
flapper thinks that no girl as clever as she is could pos¬ 
sibly slip up, when as a matter of fact her cleverness is 
just a sham—she doesn’t know half as much as she thinks 
she does. Because—” he stopped, looked at Georgia and 



THE LAST LONG MILE 


297 


back at Virginia, and went on, “because, if they were 
really clever, they would know better than to do all the 
things they do! The flappers are too stupid to realize 
that there are after-effects and consequences to every¬ 
thing they do. There’s your law of compensation: if 
you’re short in sight, you’re long on hearing; if you’re 
short on wisdom, you’re long on action; if you want 
something that you haven’t, you must give something that 
you have in order to get what you want.” Riley laughed 
at the tangle which he had made and continued, “Here’s 
the way it works out, in the case of you girls—just to 
point out how stupid most girls are! A clever girl 
realizes this law of compensation, in one way or another, 
and she realizes that it applies to her as well as to every¬ 
one else. If she’s pretty, she’ll probably be dumb, and 
in order to be as attractive as possible she must depend 
upon her prettiness to attract. If she’s rich but homely, 
she must depend upon her money and the things it can 
give her and the things that she can give others in order 
to attract them. If she’s clever in mind, witty and intel¬ 
lectually stimulating, but ordinary in looks, she must 
depend upon her intellect. If she’s just ordinary in 
looks and ordinary in mind, she has to give something 
else in order to get and keep her men. If she is homely 
as a mud-alley and stupid besides, well—whatever she 
gives up will have to be a lot. In every case, you have 
to give up something if you want men to admire or fol¬ 
low you—and that ‘man’ part is the center of all flap- 
perism. The flapper ceases to exist except as regards 
men—they are her raison d’etre .” 

Riley stopped and looked around. Georgia was watch¬ 
ing him with a queer little smile about her mouth. 
Virginia was registering no response whatever. Finally 
he continued, “The trouble with the flapper is that in 
nine cases out of ten she gives up a lot of things that 
aren’t necessary—she pays a dollar and a half check with 
a fifty-dollar bill! A pretty girl who is clever doesn’t 
need to go the limit in order to have a good time, many 


293 


WILD ASSES 


friends and admirers! A pretty girl with money and a 
few brains can have one hell of a good time without giv¬ 
ing up a thing—but—but—” Riley began to smile as he 
tried to think of a nice way of saying what he wanted 
to say. “But if they don’t have to pay anything, they 
don’t get anything—so in many cases it ends in their 
wanting a lot of things which they shouldn’t want, and 
doing a lot of things which they shouldn’t want to do— 
whereupon the old rule comes again and says that they’ve 
got to give up something in return for doing these things 
—and, well, you know what I mean.” 

Yes, they knew what he meant. Georgia’s smile was a 
little set now, and Virginia did not know just how to 
look. This man Riley was too much. “A pretty girl,” he 
stated with emphasis, “is a damned fool for laying 
around in the arms of as many men as she can find, just 
to see what effect it will have on them—she’s doing some¬ 
thing for which she has to pay!” 

Riley poured out a round of drinks after that, and, 
while drinking his, he heard Virginia say, “But petting 
is perfectly harmless—doesn’t do any one a bit of harm, 
whether it’s one man or a hundred!” 

Riley laughed. “So you think, my dear Virginia,” 
(Riley had just swallowed a strong mixture and had to 
blink his eyes before he continued), “but sooner or later 
they wish they hadn’t. No girl, I don’t care who or what 
she is, can continue to be a good sport to a variety of 
men without cheapening herself—and it is cheap, regard¬ 
less of all your theories and single standards and idle 
curiosities and everything else. The good sport is cheap 
—in the estimation of every man who benefits by her 
little generosities and relaxations! The party girl can¬ 
not call forth respect from any man who suspects that 
she does with every man what she does with him!” 

“All of which we poor flappers do not realize,” finished 
Georgia, with such an odd soberness in her tone that 
Riley turned his head to see if she were upset. But she 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


299 


just smiled the same little smile and calmly drank her 
drink, while the others watched. 

Virginia was very evidently bored with Riley’s tirade; 
she dragged Brat out to dance and they were soon fol¬ 
lowed by the other couple. The party continued in its 
old smooth channel throughout the remainder of the eve¬ 
ning and, except for the queer smile on his companion’s 
face, Riley had received no intimations that his experi¬ 
ment had in any way succeeded. In his own mind his 
idea had been to sound out Virginia; he had never given 
Georgia a thought; gradually, as he recalled some of the 
things which he had said, he began to wonder whether or 
not Georgia’s feelings had been hurt. He might have got¬ 
ten under her skin with some of those statements, but he 
hoped that he hadn’t; Georgia was a good fellow, an 
exceptionally good fellow for a girl so pretty, and she 
came from an excellent family. She was a party girl by 
her own volition, the inference being that she was not 
clever enough to realize her assets, otherwise she would 
not have such a reputation for outre doings. However— 
oh, well, she was probably all right; she’d be congenial 
by the time they got home, anyway. 

The Boomerang 

By the time they went home, Riley had almost forgot¬ 
ten about his experiment. The highballs which he mixed 
for the party proved to have been more potent than he 
suspected, for every one was in a too jolly state of 
inebriation when they finally took their departure from 
the cafe. 

Before leaving, Riley informed Brat that he intended 
to take Georgia for a little ride over to an apartment in 
Cambridge and that, in view of this, Brat and Virginia 
had best take another cab and start along. As both girls 
came from Brookline and had ostensibly to return there, 
the two-car arrangement was conceived by Riley as a 
means of precluding any embarrassing explanations for 


300 


WILD ASSES 


Brat and Virginia. So, when Riley suggested to all that 
Brat take a cab and he take another, it seemed perfectly 
matter-of-fact and not in the least out of the way to 
either Virginia or Georgia—although both had a vague 
idea of what the object of it all was. 

Riley and Georgia talked about everything in general 
and nothing in particular during their ride to Cambridge, 
both being apparently in such fine fettle that ordinary 
jokes and stories were out of order. Georgia, after the 
two couples separated, blossomed forth into a greater and 
more happy radiance than she had shown all evening; she 
teased her escort in many little ways, made many pointed 
remarks and laughed many times at having made some 
irrelevant comment which happened to catch Riley off 
his guard. 

They arrived in front of the apartment house near 
Harvard Square, and Riley went in to see if it were too 
late for them to pay a social call on his friends. 

“It’s all 0. K.,” he announced when he returned a 
moment later. “Come on, Georgette!” 

But Georgia did not move. 

“Come on! What’s wrong?” demanded the Irishman. 
“It’s perfectly all right—you’ve been up here before.” 

Still Georgia made no move to get out of the cab. 
She sat there with the light from a near-by street lamp 
upon her face; Riley noted that she was smiling, almost 
laughing at him. 

“Listen, Georgia—” he began, jumping into the cab 
beside her. “Don’t you want to go in for a while?” 

“Tom—” Georgia’s voice was a riddle. “I never heard 
of you preaching before!” 

“Preaching?” rejoined Tom, not understanding. 

“Yes—preaching. I never knew that you could preach, 
as you did there tonight!” 

“Aw—forget it, Georgia. And don’t be kidding me 
like that! Come on!” He took her hand and gave a 
gentle pull as he started again to get out of the car. 

But Georgia merely pulled back. “Honestly—you 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


301 


would make a wonderful preacher, Tom! I never knew 
that side of you before!” And Georgia continued to 
smile at him, but it seemed to Tom, who sat back and 
looked at her in wonderment, there was a wistful some¬ 
thing in that smile. 

“Say—what the devil’s eating you, anyway, Georgia?” 

“Nothing, Tom. Only, I liked you better tonight than 
any time that I’ve ever seen you. Honestly!” Still she 
smiled. 

“Well, then, let’s go up here for half an hour or so, if 
you like me so well! You know-” 

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I’m not a dumb 
dora!” 

“Well-” 

“Well, as I say, Tom—I never knew that you could talk 
like that. It was wonderful! You were so convincing— 
and every word you said had its effect. I absorbed it all 
—I believed everything you said, everything! And you 
are right: it doesn’t pay!” 

Riley was nonplused. “For Cripe’s sake, Georgia— 
cut out the bourgeois humor and forget about that stuff I 
was spouting; all that moral stuff is for the herd; we 
don’t belong to the herd!” Riley knew that was a weak 
argument, but he wanted to move, do something, anything 
but sit there and talk about that stuff. “Don’t you want 
to stop here for a little while, get sobered up before you 
go home? Come on!” 

But Georgia sat still, smiling. “Frankly, Tom, I 
should love to go, to go anywhere with you—honestly, I 
like you better than I ever did before—but I won’t go 
up there!” 

Riley looked at her for a moment, then asked, “But, 
Georgia, you don’t want to go home walking like a tank 
and smelling like a distillery, do you?” 

“Why, as you say, Tom—we have to take our choice; 
I’m taking mine tonight, I’m off that sort of thing— 
honestly!” 

As she said this, the cab driver turned, thinking per- 



302 


WILD ASSES 


haps that he had missed an order, and Riley, seeing him 
turn, abruptly exclaimed, “Oh, dammit all, let’s move 
then; over to Brookline Village, Captain!” And Georgia 
smiled. 

Not much was said during the ride to Brookline Vil¬ 
lage, and what little was said came from Georgia, who 
now and then looked up into her companion’s face from 
her resting place in his arms to make ironic little remarks 
which only served to encourage Riley’s discomfort. He 
was thinking, wondering about many things, chief of 
which was a vague generalization concerning the joys of 
anticipation and the satisfactions of pleasure unrealized 
—all of which thinking was more or less ironic also. 

When he saw his happy lady to her door, he could not 
have said whether he expected anything or not, but what 
he received was, “Honest, Tom—you’re a jewel—too 
damned nice to be running around loose!” She kissed 
him, with her arms tight around his neck, then laughed 
lightly and closed the door in his face. 

And during his ride back to Cambridge he thought 
some more—wondering whether he had let himself in for 
a joke, or whether Georgia might be capable of being 
sincere. He could not decide whether he really had been 
a goat, an angel, or just a foolish good fellow. 

Subconscious Anticipation 

Meanwhile Brat and Virginia had gone directly to the 
latter’s palatial mansion in the Reservoir section of 
Brookline. As the cab hummed and purred monoton¬ 
ously along, only one corner of the rear seat was occu¬ 
pied, and the occupants were lulled into an all-pervading 
feeling of security and complete happiness. 

There was very little conversation. When the two 
couples parted at the hotel, Virginia had laughingly said, 
“Oh, I think Tom is too funny for words—he’s so old- 
fashioned and worried about us young girls! I under¬ 
stand, Brat dear, why you like him so well—he’s just 
like you in his ideas!” 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


303 


Ordinarily Brat would not have thought anything of 
this, hut at the time he suddenly began to wonder just 
what she meant by that remark. It was enough to make 
any one laugh—Riley just like him! Virginia was 
always saying things like that—absolutely no rhyme or 
reason to some of her talk. 

Virginia, however, was not depending upon her talk. 
She was, as she told herself, “absolutely, whole-souledly, 
intensely in love with Brat,” and it rather upset her 
little balance of cleverness because he took everything so 
much for granted and showed no responsiveness at all, as 
other men should and did. She was a lovely little crea¬ 
ture, perfectly adorable in every way, and entirely normal 
in every way—which was unfortunate: she had grown up 
under nurses and governesses and later in several ultra¬ 
select boarding schools; there was very little of interest 
that she did not know. At school she had been a regular 
girl in every way; many a night she had listened to 
impersonal risque stories after lights-out, and many a 
time she had blushed in hearing a supposedly personal 
story told by girls who professed to have experienced 
the story-book thrills of life. The result was that when 
she finished school she had a very broad theoretical 
knowledge of everything that matters; her only curiosity 
now lay in the matter of personal experience. She had 
had no such experiences as many of the girls related, and 
she was perfectly normal in being curious about the 
actuality of things, about learning at first-hand things 
which she had learned second-hand. Nevertheless, she 
was a level-headed girl, and when her father overlooked 
her sufficiently to permit a considerable freedom and 
liberty of movement and activity on her part, she did 
not proceed forthwith to abuse her opportunities. She 
had a very good time. She had always a wide variety of 
men from which to choose for companionship, and she 
managed to find something interesting about every one of 
them. 

Besides which, she delighted in studying men. She was 


304 


WILD ASSES 


what might be called a behavioristic psychologist—she 
studied men through their behavior, and learned many, 
many things in the course of her experiments. She tried to 
develop a definite technique of attractiveness, which she 
built up by trying out various little devices to see what 
effect each had upon men in general and men in particu¬ 
lar, and she had so far proceeded in her technique¬ 
building that her formulas were rather thorough-going 
and complete when she became interested in Brat. 

But her treatment failed to produce the expected re¬ 
sults in Brat, and the fact of this piqued the little lady 
very much indeed. She resorted to all her reservoir of 
tricks and devices, called up many discarded formulae, 
and the more she tried to affect Brat, naturally the more 
she was interested in him. The inevitable result was 
that, as she continued in her efforts, she grew to be more 
and more in love with him, and her efforts ultimately 
came to be nothing short of the fine art of teasing—for 
she teased and annoyed and tormented him so ardently 
that for the greater part of the occasions upon which they 
were together poor Brat was utterly bewitched beyond 
any ability to react as she wanted him to react. 

On the night of their little party with Georgia and 
Riley, Brat was even less talkative and responsive than 
usual, and Virginia did not appear to be over-enthusiastic 
about anything. Of course, she did her customary little 
tricks to make Brat uncomfortable, but she did not exert 
herself in that direction. Then, that conversation or 
monologue of Tom’s had been quite disturbing—Tom 
was too old-fashioned: he didn’t know the first thing 
about women! 

No, he didn’t! The more Virginia thought of this, the 
more she became convinced, under the influence of Tom’s 
highballs, that it was true. By the time she and Brat had 
reached her home she was even so convinced of it that 
she determined to do everything in her power to prove it 
correct. 

She did everything in her power. She would not hear 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


305 


of Brat’s going right home. He had to come in for a 
little while, anyway. It would be entirely all right. No 
one would hear them. She led him into a little den which 
looked out upon a garden in which shrubs and bushes, 
bare of leaves, stood like shivering urchins in the cold 
light of the moon. It was comfortably warm in the den, 
and Brat, having shed his coat and muffler, sat down 
beside Virginia on the soft-cushioned window lounge, 
feeling that here was such tranquillity as to be the end of 
all desire. Virginia sneaked under his arm and snuggled 
her soft, warm little self so close to him that he had to 
take her in his arms in self-defence. 

“O-o-oh—I’m chilled to an icicle, Brat dear!” she mur¬ 
mured, pulling him back into the soft cushions so that 
both might be more comfortable. But they were not at 
once more comfortable; a certain amount of squirming 
around and rearranging of pillows was necessary before 
they became really settled in perfect comfort. 

“Oh-o-o-h, Brat—you funny old dearest, you! Keep 
me warm!” Virginia lay close against him in all her 
seductive softness. Her little feet came just to his ankles 
and whenever she squirmed or moved she invariably 
kicked him, hard enough so that each time there was 
cause for apologies and she said, “So sorry!” and pulled 
herself closer for a kiss of apology. 

Brat’s senses, somewhat awry from the refreshments 
which he had consumed, were aroused by all the little 
things of this situation, and by the sweet nothings which 
were poured into his ears. He vaguely realized that this 
was really the first time that he and Virginia had ever 
been absolutely alone and to themselves, and, realizing 
it, he said to himself that it surely would not be the last. 

His senses, once aroused, knew no limitations, and Vir¬ 
ginia, if she really had learned anything in the course 
of her adventures in technique, should have recognized 
the symptoms. Perhaps she did—it is probable that these 
symptoms were the behavioristic reactions which she had 
long been anticipating. At any rate, her teasing and 


306 


WILD ASSES 


tormenting was carried on without any apparent qualms, 
and in consequence Brat was soon a whirlpool of emo¬ 
tions and irresistible urges. 

In truth Virginia must have been delighted with the 
manner in which he finally did react. His arm that 
held her breathlessly against him was hard as steel 
against her neck and shoulder. 

The smoothness of her skin! The softness and supple¬ 
ness of her body! Such warmth, such glowing life! 
Brat had never desired this pretty little creature like that 
before—not consciously; but deep down he had wanted 
her vaguely, anticipating the having of her without 
realizing it. But now- 

Virginia should have known. But she was happy be¬ 
yond all knowing! 

“Well, Brat,” said Riley, next morning, as they sat at 
breakfast in a one-arm lunchroom, “my little experiment 
didn’t work out as we expected, did it?” Riley could 
laugh at his own experience. 

And Brat managed to smile—however otherwise he felt 
—as he said, “I should say it didn’t! Next time you 
keep your experiments to yourself!” 

Though he smiled, there was so much of earnestness 
and feeling in his tone that his roommate refrained from 
laughing as he related his disappointing experience of 
the night before, throughout which relating Brat smiled 
queerly, especially so when his friend concluded by say¬ 
ing, “Which all goes to show that you never can tell how 
things will turn out—the best laid plans of mice and 
men, et cetera!” 

On the Temper of the Times 

Three days after this little episode, Scotty came back 
from the hospital to find Riley and a visitor in a heated 
argument over a variety of subjects. The visitor was 
Winnie Pickett, looking now very much the successful 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


307 


young go-getter as portrayed in the fiction of the times. 

“Just in time! just in time!” exclaimed Riley, almost 
before Brock had had time to remove his coat and say 
hello to Pick. 

“Just in time for what?” asked Brock, pausing in his 
operations. The Irishman picked up a sheaf of papers 
from his desk and said, “Now, listen to this! You started 
it—you suggested the idea—and I’ve worked it up into a 
report for Social Ethics. Now tell me what you think 
of it—you too, Pick!” 

“Fire away!” said Brock, proceeding about his busi¬ 
ness. “What’s the title and where do I come in?” 

“The title is Wild Asses! You thought it up in your 
sleep once.” 

“Wild Asses!” mused Brock, hut vaguely recalling the 
term. “Go ahead, though!” 

The Irishman lit a cigarette and began to read*. 

Stupidity and stubbornness are the distinguishing char¬ 
acteristics of that variety of mammal commonly called 
the Ass, and stupidity and stubbornness likewise dis¬ 
tinguish a great, large class of parallels or counterparts 
or human imitations of the four-legged ass. The species 
of human ass is a broad and composite group, repre¬ 
senting in its membership all walks of life, all classes of 
society, all professions and all creeds—the asinine are the 
salt of the earth and they seldom hide their lights under 
bushels. 

Sometimes an ass is crossed with an ox, and the product 
of these two is usually a much respected human being, a 
stupid, hardworking fool whose industry precludes effi¬ 
ciency and whose life and works and hope of happiness 
aim toward a single satisfaction—ultimate satisfaction — 
in death. Christianity has been labelled, not unjustly, 
the Creed of Hope in Death and Faith in the Unknown 
(in contrast to the Greek philosophy of Enjoyment of 
Life and Reality) and in at least a partial way the ass of 
industry is truly a solid Christian, for all his hopes are 


308 


WILD ASSES 


projected to posterity and to his own after-death destiny. 
A wonderful philosophy of living—a man that wants hut 
little here below! 

But all asses are not of this variety. More common, 
more noticeable, more easily recognizable and more in¬ 
teresting are those poor dumb asses whose asininity is 
expressed in their following stupidity, stubbornly and 
wildly the illusion of excitement as the sine qua non of 
happy existence. These are the wild asses of the species, 
cavorting and aimless bucking being their chief occupa¬ 
tions until such time as they come to be, as do the asses 
of industry, merely human beasts of burden—but their 
burdens are of a different kind: the wild asses, having 
demonstrated their strength, vivacity and endurability in 
their wildness, must carry a heavier burden than their 
brothers. The industrious ass thrives in a sort of dazed 
condition, for all asses best thrive under restrictions and 
restraints; but the wild ass is without all such restrictions 
until they are but added burdens conducing to no comfort. 

Truly this is the hey-day of the wild ass! Thus much- 
vaunted freedom, this untrammeled liberty, this mad 
folly of independence, this screaming dance around the 
three little cold-cream idols of inalienable rights, “Life, 
Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness ,’ 9 this helter-skelter 
machine age of unleashed inhibitions and no morals, this 
ruinous “every man for himself” rage! 

Perhaps, as one Herbert Spencer sought to prove, evo¬ 
lution proceeds from the homogeneous to the hetero¬ 
geneous, from the simple to the complex. They say that 
our society of today is the most complex in the history of 
human relations; perhaps, but the present day is also in 
many respects the most simple. Our progress is toward 
simpleness in complexity! Wild asses are harbingers of 
decadence — decadence, a general term, connoting simple¬ 
ness and paucity of thought and physical reversion to 
ancestral beastliness, stubbornness and stupidity. For it 
is stupid to be any other than wholesomely progressive, 
and the wild ass in his stubbornness insists upon remain- 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


309 


ing stupid and blind to all possible escapes from that 
stupidity until, as the producer of decadence, he becomes 
of necessity a product of decadence, and his burdens are 
manifold and heavy; he is at the bottom of a very long 
ladder. 

The wild ass—and he is legion!—suffers from mental 
gout and spiritual thirst; he knows too much and feels 
too little, lives too fast, seeking emotional and spiritual 
satisfactions which, as Faust learned, are not to be got by 
any process but existence with and for men. The doc¬ 
trine of individual freedom and liberty is futile in its ex¬ 
tremes, and has been proved a million times unsatisfying 
and ineffectual—it has, as is apparent in this day and 
age, but given greater opportunities for the wild ass to 
grow wilder. 

There is a theory that history runs in cycles, and 
according to that theory the present post-war mania for 
excitement is merely transitory, and will be superseded 
by a reversion toward the other extreme, formality and 
restraint, such as characterized the age of Queen Victoria. 
That was an age of idealism; men lived toward lofty 
ends; they did not consider living as a bad lot to be 
made the best of, but as a privilege and an opportunity. 
The characters of those times, the letters of the men and 
women, the public and private enterprises and achieve¬ 
ments, all the life of the English-speaking world, felt the 
spirit of that idealism. It was reflected in their literature, 
as in Tennyson, Arnold, Ruskin, Thackeray, Dickens, 
and countless others. Living was worth while and worth 
idealizing. In our post-war mania we find it not so: our 
literature reflects our attitude, which is that life is not 
worth much! 

Must we submit? Must we drag along in the hope that 
the cycle will operate, that we will find ourselves grad¬ 
ually tightening our system and heightening the pyramid 
of worthy ideals which has been so utterly flattened in the 
past ten years? Perhaps the cycle will not operate — per¬ 
haps this fetish of freedom and self-sufficiency will prove 


310 


WILD ASSES 


too alluring to be relinquished by men and women who 
have come to worship it. We lack worthy ideals today, 
and men must have ideals to live by in social organiza¬ 
tion; ideals are not instinctive nor the product of spon¬ 
taneous generation in society. 

Are they being cultivated and developed? In other 
times the complaint was that ignorance was the root of 
all evil, that education would prevent wholesale madness 
and decadence by showing people that the socially unde¬ 
sirable things do not pay. But our universal educational 
program seems to have achieved but little in this respect. 
It has taught the mannerisms, the superficial aspects of 
living—given the young implements which they can use 
as they see fit; but it has failed to cultivate in them any 
ideas of fitness. It falls short there, with the result that 
our age is characterized by universal mental gout and 
spiritual hunger—and ignorance is bliss if the spirit is 
well fed, whereas it is unbelievable that spiritual stupidity 
or moral poverty is blissful even in genius! 

The wild ass is typical of the times — indeed, the type 
predominates, and the individuals belonging to this class 
are allowed, under our loose and flashy modern theories, 
to go their wild, unheeding, recklessly crushing ways 
with none but the clergy to protest. Home and school 
are negative influences. If the activities of the wild ass 
were like a solitary vice, or suicidal at worst, society 
should worry; but they are like pagan priests who set the 
fashions which others follow, so that all society is per¬ 
meated with the aggravating irritations to which they, 
the asses, have fallen prey. One phase of it all may be 
seen in the New Woman. Womankind could once be 
divided into three general classifications: the lady, the 
drudge, and the prostitute. But now to this must be 
added the Human Mule — sexless, a total racial loss! 
Man breeds mules by asses! 

How many they are? Not only in the younger gener¬ 
ation, but among the fathers and mothers of the next 
preceding generation. No feelings—just existence with 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


311 


a passion for excitement, something to do! Tender sensi¬ 
bilities burnt out or never developed. Incapable of find¬ 
ing any enjoyment in themselves—intellectual pleasures 
are impossible when the mind has no capacity for 
feeling. The whole temper of the times is toward it, in 
this age of mechanical, industrial and commercial effi¬ 
ciency, this age of machine-made morals of low degree, 
made fascinating and acceptable to millions of stupid 
asses by virtue of the too human failing for believing 
everything seen in print — “print” meaning newspapers, 
scare-crow magazines, bathing-girl supplements and the 
intelligence-insulting movies. 

How far it reaches! Prostitution is no longer legal¬ 
ized, yet probably never before have so many young 
girls gone in for paying for their parties and entertain¬ 
ment with their bodies, and without feeling that they are 
losing something of unreckonable value; they give them¬ 
selves because they think it’s all in the game. Never 
before have girls so had to be “good sports,” or remain 
at home twiddling their thumbs in needlework. Never 
before has life been held so cheap, with divorces, abor¬ 
tions and crimes of outright depravity and gross excess 
the expected thing, rather than the shocking exception. 
Our education! When fathers and mothers, publicly 
educated but fed also on the movies, slush newspapers 
and musical comedies, take as a matter of course their 
daughters 9 coming home for shelter with fatherless chil¬ 
dren! When movie queens and heroes are so idealized 
and imitated that even their family troubles, faults and 
weaknesses are inspirations for the idol worshippers! 
When the basis of our society, the home, is almost unrec¬ 
ognizable as anything but a place to sleep, chiefly because 
of the ambition of educators! When the wild asses jump 
and plunge, in the very shadow of the schools, with 
apparent disregard for the teaching, too little taught, that 
there is always a day of reckoning ahead! Emotionally 
starved, the wild asses prance and dance! 

They dance their dance—regardless of all , it seems —- 


312 


WILD ASSES 


but the fiddler is no fool—the fiddler’s hat will be 
passed—and the fiddler is an ugly wretch! 

Riley stopped, out of breath from this reading; aside 
from a few slight comments as he read along, he had 
been uninterrupted by either of his hearers. Now he 
looked at them, so much as to say, “Well, how about it?” 

Pick spoke first, looking toward Brock, “I think he’s 
drunk again, Scotty!” 

Then Brock said, “What in name of sufferin’ saints 
is eating you, Tom? What course is that for?” 

“Why—I’m going to use it as a speech in Public 
Speaking and as a report in Social Ethics,” explained 
Riley. 

“Old man Owl-Face will throw you the hell out of 
his class if you get up and give that for a speech!” said 
Brock. 

“It’s ambiguous!” adjudged Pick. 

“The hell it is?” queried Riley, “You’re an ass! You’re 
too damned stupid to appreciate it, Winslow Twicken¬ 
ham!” He laughed. 

“Well,” began Brock, “I know a lot of wild asses— 
fit that description to a T; excitement-seeking fools, 
thrill-mad creatures, with about as much depth and 
emotional feeling as a centipede—” Brock mused on 
to himself; he was thinking of many people, of the obser¬ 
vations he had made so often, all of which were so hand- 
in-glove with the Irishman’s description of the temper 
of the times. “By Gad,” he said to himself, “they are 
all wild asses—all except Ellen, that is!” 

They talked about the report for several minutes, 
Riley and Pick doing most of the talking, as they had 
never been able to agree on anything, and their Senior 
year had done anything but bring them closer together, 
for Pickett had served his apprenticeship and had won 
his way to the leadership of his class. He was the con¬ 
ventional conservative, as all leaders must be, and Riley 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


313 


was anything but conservative, despite his tirade on 
“Wild Asses.” 

In the end, Riley said, “Well, I’m damned glad that’s 
done! Now I can go on that party tonight with a clear 
conscience! I’ve got a date with one of the wildest 
of wild asses for ce soir , gentlemen!” 

Yes, college life is made up of inconsistencies and 
incredible disconnections and incongruities, and the Irish¬ 
man’s life was one of the best available examples. 

What Men Live By 

Regret had no place in Virginia’s scheme of living. 
For several days after that memorable evening with Brat, 
she was much upset, but never sorry. What vexed her 
more than anything was the fact that she could not explain 
to herself just how it had happened; Brat had never 
seemed to mind her tormenting him until that night, then 
he had exploded all of a sudden, and—well, she hadn’t 
minded his exploding, but it was disconcerting to realize 
that one could not be forever in perfect control of oneself. 
What she had permitted to be done did not in her 
judgment constitute a sin—she never even bothered to 
consider the moral side of it; the problem lay in herself, 
in her having played with fire and for so long that her 
fingers were burned and blistered. The blisters were 
mental blisters, not spiritual at all. 

She went to a dance a few nights later with Brat’s 
rival, the young banker—who was, incidentally, a mem¬ 
ber in good standing in half a dozen excellent clubs, 
a polished gentleman of the bluest of blue-blood variety, 
with all the apparent embellishments and social attain¬ 
ments that much wealth, Yale College and foreign travel 
can give to a man. And she went many other places 
with this Byron Parks Shutley during the following two 
weeks, and saw quite as much of him during that time 
as she did of Brat. Everything she enjoyed with abandon. 
She felt more mature, as if she were now most assuredly 


314 


WILD ASSES 


a woman of experience, very certain of herself and very 
jolly—jolly enough at most times to make her forget 
certain recurring thoughts which sometimes disturbed 
her equanimity. Brat accepted her as she appeared. 
No mention was made of that memorable night. He was 
perfectly willing to forget it and quite successfully 
acted as if he had forgotten it. Both he and Virginia 
were quite the same (which surprised him very much 
the first time they met afterwards) and were apparently 
unaffected by what had happened. 

They were just the same, with a slight exception—now 
Brat was certain that he wanted to marry Virginia; to 
him there was just one thing to do, and that was to 
marry her. Virginia, of course, had not thought of that, 
as her going out with Shutley indicated. Ultimately Brat 
began to realize that she did not even think of such a 
consequence, and as a result, the fact of her going with 
Shutley so often had quite the effect which Virginia 
expected it would have—Brat decided to crawl into his 
shell again and let her go her own way. When the 
Christmas vacation came, two weeks after that night, he 
took the express for Ohio a very much disturbed young 
man, but he was almost convinced that he did not want 
to marry Virginia if it meant no more to her than that. 

The Sunday after his going to Ohio, Virginia went to 
church for the first time in many months, and prayed with 
more genuine sincerity than ever before in her life. And 
that night she prayed. And the next night. She was 
not so jolly now. 

Brat was at home for less than ten days but when 
he returned to Cambridge he soon found himself con¬ 
fronted by a very different Virginia than he had left the 
day before Christmas, and he was soon informed in very 
delicate language as to the cause of the change, so deli¬ 
cate indeed that he had to ask for particulars several 
times before he fully understood the circumstances into 
which he had fallen. 

Only one reaction was possible for Brat—he wanted to 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


315 


get married at once, just as soon as he could scrape 
together enough money to consummate the wish. 

“But, Brat dear, we can’t do that!” objected Virginia. 
“What would people think of our breaking up every¬ 
thing and getting married so suddenly, and without any 
warning or planning? Why, I wouldn’t think of it!” 

“Well—that’s the only thing to do,” replied Brat. 
“Don’t you want to marry me?” 

“Oh, you funny old dear!—of course I do, but I don’t 
want to do it in such a way as to utterly ruin my 
reputation! Why not begin letting a few rumors float 
out, and I’ll speak to Dad about it, and we can plan to 
do it say in a month or two months—then people won’t 
think anything of it!” 

“Yes, but—” Brat had heard of suspicions aroused 
by situations subsequent to such affairs. 

“Oh, I know what you mean—but I can go away or 
do something so that will be all right. Meantime maybe 
something will happen-” 

So it was settled, in such a way that it appeared that 
of the two Virginia was by far the stronger personality. 
She told Brat no more as to her condition, and the only 
idea which Brat had from their first interview on the 
subject was that it was absolutely necessary for him to 
gather in money enough somehow to support a wife. 

He had little idea as to whether it would be easy or 
difficult for him to connect with a good position. The 
matter of his economic welfare had never bothered him 
much—he took as a matter of course, as something to he 
expected in due time, his own economic success in the 
world—but all that would come later, in due time, after 
college. Now he was faced with the urgent demand that 
he find a money-making connection without delay, and, 
quite in keeping with his character, he faced the demand 
without even a flicker of an eyelid. 

Which was about as far as he went in that direction, 
for good jobs were scarce, especially for a man who was 
still in college and carrying a full-time program of 



316 


WILD ASSES 


work. He searched in vain, tried employment bureaus 
and big corporations, called upon friends and friends of 
friends. He received curt refusals from those whom he 
did not know, pleasant negatives from those who knew 
his friends, and smiling regrets from his friends—they 
could not understand the sudden decision to join the 
ranks of labor and refused to take his demands with any 
great amount of seriousness. 

The further he sought, the more worried he became 
and the more uncomfortable he felt, until finally he 
showed such obvious symptoms of mental unrest that 
Riley was moved to inquire, “What’s the matter? Some¬ 
body trying to foreclose on the family jewels? Or on the 
old homestead?” To which he received a reply with no 
information whatsoever; Brat kept his troubles to him¬ 
self, thereby insuring their speedy multiplication, for 
troubles feed upon themselves if kept to themselves. 

We Subjects of the Goddess Fear! 

One Way of Learning 

The following weeks were heavy ones for Brat, he 
being especially rushed for time on account of his hav¬ 
ing to meet his requirements in the mid-year examina¬ 
tions. Somehow—he could never have explained how— 
he managed to pass satisfactorily, with the minimum of 
credits, but by the time he had achieved this unexpected 
feat, he was so utterly worn out with his work and his 
worries that he could not have said whether or not he 
wanted to pass; he would have been almost content if 
he had flunked, thereby relieving himself of the necessity 
of further studying. His college work did not interest 
him in the least—he had other, urgent, more important 
matters to occupy his mind. 

Chief of which was Virginia! As the weeks rolled 
on—like minutes they seemed—her state of mind went 
through a process of changes, the exact nature of which 
would defy description. Whereas at first she had been 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


317 


ultra-wise and self-confident, she gradually became less 
so until at last she came to the point of actual mental and 
spiritual anguish. She was frantic when the last ray of 
hope vanished, not long after Brat’s return from Ohio. 
She came to realize that the so-called silver lining, so 
common in the tragedies of fiction and drama, was a 
very illusory affair—very difficult to uncover when the 
clouds of trouble are actually upon and around one. 
She came to be self-conscious, irritable, fearsome, and 
altogether more retiring and afraid of people and daily 
affairs than she ever imagined she could be. She thought 
often of the possibilities of her case—what if she had to 
go on, through with it all? She could imagine what it 
would be like—a terrible ordeal, without a speck of ro¬ 
mance or excitement in it! She could never do that! What 
could she do? She had heard of a variety of possible 
escapes—but she did not really know how to go about 
doing any of them! Worse still, she had no one to 
whom she could turn for advice or guidance in that 
direction. She could get money easily enough—but 
one couldn’t just take a pocketful of money and run to 
the nearest hospital! Especially not alone! Brat? He 
was of no use whatsoever in that respect—she could 
depend upon him for almost anything, but she could not 
depend upon him to find one of those escapes for her. 
He would never be able to understand such a thing at 
all. Yet she must turn to some one! What could she 
do? What if her father should in some way discover 
her condition? Or her maid? 

The thought was too terrible to contemplate. Yet 
she contemplated this and many other terrifying possi¬ 
bilities during those weeks, as she realized that the pass¬ 
ing of every single day was just an additional nail in 
her casket of doom. 

She saw Brat as often as possible. He was so big and 
strong, such a refuge, in whose company she always felt 
safe and secure. With him she could give vent to her 
emotions, knowing beforehand just what response, what 


318 


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sympathetic reaction, to expect from him. She had fre¬ 
quent spells of despondency, absolute hopelessness, and 
it was after one of these spells that she went to dinner 
one evening with Brat and Riley. It was three weeks 
after Christmas, just wintry enough so that the ride 
downtown in an open car sufficed to refresh her, with the 
result that she managed to appear very much like her 
old self when she met the two roommates. Throughout 
the dinner she contributed her share to the conversation 
and afterwards divided several dances between her two 
escorts. Riley thought that she looked even prettier than 
ever, although she was very apparently not so jolly as of 
old. 

“And by the way, Virginia,” he remarked, as the three 
were enjoying cigarettes, “I want to congratulate you 
upon the good influence you’re having on our estimable 
companion here! By George, you’re doing wonders— 
miracles!” 

“Why?” asked the girl, not knowing to what he 
referred. 

“I mean about working so hard and going to church 
and everything! Brat never impressed any one as being 
exceptionally regular in attending church—we all thought 
he was a pagan or an infidel!” Riley smiled sarcastically 
at his roommate, who scowled back at him, saying to 
himself that he hoped Virginia would turn the conversa¬ 
tion into other channels. 

But Virginia did not do as he hoped. Instead, she 
said, “Well, I think it does one a lot of good! I get a 
terrible lot out of a good church service—just the act of 
going and listening sort of strengthens one, I think.” 

“I should say so,” agreed Riley. “There’s nothing like 
it for reassuring one! Even when you admit to yourself 
that it all doesn’t really mean anything, that it is founded 
on myth.” 

“Myth?’’asked Virginia, starting as if she had been 
offended. “Don’t you believe there is a God and a heaven 
and a Hell?” 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


319 


“Well, there’s a God of some kind—there must have 
been an ultimate beginning of all existence, all life, the 
universe, the clouds, the sea—there was a beginning 
somewhere, sometime, and behind that beginning there 
must have been a Creator—a force or power of some 
kind. But what that Creator actually was or is, no one 
knows. We call him or it God, and we worship God in 
costly temples in a variety of formalities, customs, and 
systems of belief. The formalities and customs, the 
actual way in which we worship, is unimportant—the 
essential thing is that we worship; we recognize some 
force or power greater than humankind.” 

Virginia did not know just how to take this. “That 
sounds sort of odd coming from a good Catholic like 
you, Tom,” she remarked. 

“Of course I’m a good Catholic—I was raised on a 
Roman bottle!” laughed the Irishman. “But that does 
not prevent me from being intelligent—exercising mere 
common sense about my religion. I hold no man’s 
religion against him—the Buddhist, the Mohammedan, the 
Confucian, the Christian, Catholic or Protestant, and even 
the so-called pagan—all are entitled to as much human 
sympathy and regard and respect as I am; as long as 
they have some systems or system of belief by which they 
live, they are intelligent human beings, not necessarily 
inferior to you or me. It doesn’t make any difference 
what you believe as long as you believe something! 
That’s the point. And a man doesn’t need to be a fanatic 
either! This religion business is merely a convenience 
for human beings who have to live together, and in our 
case, the Christian doctrines were evolved out of the 
necessities of communal existence—people have to live 
together, therefore a certain amount of give and take 
will be inevitable; things which are injurious or harmful 
to other people must be forbidden the individual; and it 
all aims toward making it possible and easy for human 
beings to be happy in their existence on this earth. 
That’s all there is to our religion—just a formalized 


320 


WILD ASSES 


system of laws: they are not necessarily divine laws— 
they are man-made laws, made to promote man’s own 
welfare and happiness. And common sense says that 
it is for one’s own best interest to obey these universal 
laws.” Riley smiled indulgently at Virginia, who was 
taking in his every word intently. 

After a moment she repeated, “But don’t you think 
there is a Heaven and a Hell, Tom?” 

“I doubt if there is any post-mortem Heaven or Hell,” 
he answered without hesitation. “We have no good 
reason to think that there is! All this after-death stuff 
is merely a necessary supplement to the religion—I mean, 
the instinctive fear of the unknown helps one to remember 
the laws of his religion; it emphasizes their meaning 
and makes them more effective, so that people think of 
sinning as courting disaster of a kind which they cannot 
anticipate because they don’t know what may happen 
to them after death. Actually, there is no such thing as 
sin! There’s no divine law which says that two people 
should be married before they have children—a woman 
isn’t committing a sin if she proceeds to have children 
without getting married, but she is committing a breach 
of man-made laws, social laws, and she has to suffer for 
that breach. There’s where your Heaven and Hell come 
in. I believe that you get out of this life just about 
what you put into it—you’ll make of it a paradise or 
you’ll sooner or later make of it a hell! Any punish¬ 
ment that is coming to a person for committing one of the 
so-called sins, will come to them in this life. They 
suffer in one way or another sooner or later. There may 
be exceptions to that, but they are few and far between, 
and it wouldn’t pay any individual to take it for granted 
that he or she is to be the exception, for ninety-nine 
times out of a hundred he or she will pay fully for what¬ 
ever he or she does. There’s your law of compensation 
that we were discussing that night—” He paused as 
he noted that Virginia dropped her eyes at mention 
of that party. “The law says, if you want something. 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


321 


pay the price and take it! And you can buy joys, hap¬ 
piness, contentment, peace, just as easily as you can buy 
pain, suffering, sorrow, worry, trouble, unrest. Your 
Heaven or your Hell is right in your own life, and most 
people are so born into the world that they can take 
their choice.” Riley laughed, feeling that he had said 
quite enough on this subject—which he had contemplated 
much more deeply than his sketchy explanation would 
indicate. 

But Virginia was still curious, and demanded that her 
curiosity be satisfied. “Well, what good does it do to 
have gods if the laws are all man-made—a person might 
as well be an atheist!” she stated, as if trying to convince 
herself. 

“Well, there’s no such thing as an atheist! I don’t 
care how much a man may cry against religion and 
theology and God and the Devil—he may sincerely and 
earnestly believe that there is no God of any kind; but 
when he gets into trouble, when he finds himself up 
against something that’s bigger than he can handle, 
when he comes to the point of helplessness and hopeless¬ 
ness, he’s going to pray—and he’ll pray harder and 
more hopefully than the ordinary believer. He’ll pray 
to God for help, for guidance, for anything or everything! 
And in doing so he admits that there is a God of some 
kind!” 

“But,” countered Virginia, engrossed in this subject, 
to the evident discomfort of Brat. “But, is that all God’s 
for then—for the pinches?” 

“No,” laughed Riley. “That’s just when we like him 
most! We should worship and be thankful to him in 
the times of prosperity and happiness, and pray to him 
in times of distress! Constant faith in him is a refuge 
such as one can find nowhere else. As proof of which, 
look at the cases of insanity—a man who cannot or does 
not seek that refuge in time of great trouble and distress 
will inevitably lose his balance, go insane. But you 
and I, so long as we use our heads and make ourselves 


322 


WILD ASSES 


welcome in that refuge, can depend upon him for just 
what you say you get from church services—strength and 
reassurance! That’s what religion’s for.” 

Virginia was much impressed. It all made her feel much 
better, much relieved. Tom made it all seem so simple, 
so sensible. According to his explanation, she need not 
feel eternally damned—she would have to pay for what 
she had done, but whatever hell-fire she had to endure 
would be such a one as she could see and feel. There 
would be something tangible at least, but—“What if a 
sinner should die, at once?” she asked suddenly. 

“Why, that’s paying—the said sinner would be deprived 
of the joys and pleasures of what otherwise would have 
been the rest of his life here—he misses a lot! That’s 
why people hate to die—they know they’re going to miss 
a lot!” 

Yes, that sounded reasonable enough. Tom was a 
clever man—he might even be forgiven for being so old- 
fashioned in some of his ideas, for he surely could think 
things out sensibly, and he could explain them so that 
they seemed so simple. Yes, Tom was very much of a 
jewel—but she hoped he hadn’t noticed how interested 
she had been in his explanation. 

Tom had not noticed—that is, he noticed that Virginia 
seemed to be much impressed by their talk, much more 
so than by their previous conversation on the subject of 
ethics and morals, but he never suspected for an instant 
the tremendous effect which his ideas had had upon her. 
Nor would he ever know how close he had come to tear¬ 
ing apart a little girl’s heart at a time when she needed 
every particle of blood and tissue that composed that 
spiritual organ. Nor would he know or even suspect 
what the direct effect of his confession of faith was. 

A week or so later Brat had occasion to recall that 
Riley had once declaimed, “The worst fears are never 
realized—the worst never happens!” 

The occasion was the discovery, upon calling at the 
Jordan home, that Virginia was confined to her bed. 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


323 


“Miss Virginia is very ill!” the maid informed him. 
Upon hearing this, unimaginative creature though he was, 
Brat’s fears knew no bounds. He immediately took it for 
granted that the worst had happened—whatever that 
“worst” might be! 

While he waited for the maid to call him, the Jordan’s 
family doctor passed him, with a smile and a hearty 
“hello there!” which struck Brat as being too genial to 
he good. He wanted to ask the doctor several questions 
about several things, but, try as he did, he could not for 
the life of him think of the words for the questions, so 
he waited until, a few moments later, as he sat beside her 
bed, Virginia very matter-of-factly informed him that 
all their worries had been uncalled for. “There’s nothing 
whatever the matter with me! Doctor Garnet says I’ve 
just let myself become all run-down! I’ve just worried 
myself into chills and fever, I guess!” 

The sum total of Brat’s reaction to this information 
was a stupid grin. 

“So now be happy and forget about all that stuff!” 
declared Virginia, nervously, alternately patting and kiss¬ 
ing the huge hand which Brat, still stupidly, extended 
to her. 

To him it was all impossible—sounded too much like a 
French story which he had once read—Virginia’s sketchy 
explanation concerning irregularities and lapses and a 
lot of other facts of life did not mean a thing to him. 

Later when he tried to think the whole affair out, he 
experienced neither surprise nor regret. In his view 
matters remained just as they had been before this good 
news: he had to marry Virginia, for very obvious reasons, 
and before he could do that he would have to make money 
enough to support her. This last then was his problem, 
and so he considered it, while Virginia, slowly recovering 
her strength, gradually took up again a few of her activi¬ 
ties of former times, most of which, she frankly admitted 
to herself, had no virtue at all except in that they helped 
fill up her days when Brat was busy. 


324 WILD ASSES 

“Depart to Serve Better Your Fellow Men!” 

At first, immediately after the ordeal had passed, 
Virginia returned somewhat to her normal self, and she 
was again able to think of putting off marriage to 
the dim distant future. She loved Brat, deeply and 
genuinely—of this she was certain in her mind; but she 
did not want to marry him at once. Sometime—later— 
not right away; she felt that she should have a chance to 
be free again before going into something which should 
bind her the rest of her days. Before her trouble, this 
would have sounded foolish to her—she thought of mar¬ 
riage merely as a convenience, a cloak which could be 
put on and taken off at will—people got married this 
year and divorced next, so that there was no “life-long” 
anticipation connected with the thought of marrying. 
Now, however, she wanted to postpone the act for the 
reason that it did seem to be a lifelong matter—once 
done, there would be no return to freedom. 

As she regained her health and grew back into her old 
self again, she intimated her ideas to Brat. She was 
perfectly frank with him about it—and Brat was perfectly 
frank in reply. “It’s up to you, Virginia,” he said. “I’ll 
be carrying on and probably by the time you’re ready, 
I’ll be fixed so that we can have everything you want. 
Go ahead and have a good time now, because once you tie 
down, it’ll be for good!” Brat had definite ideas about 
this matter at least. So Virginia went ahead and had 
a good time, to the best of her ability. 

But little the worse for the strain of study, he cele¬ 
brated Class Day in proper style with his mother and 
Lois and Virginia watching from the heights of the 
Stadium. He relied for the entertainment of the three 
women upon his roommate, and that gentleman was 
very much relieved when Mrs. Bratten and Lois informed 
him of the necessity for their returning to Dartonville 
without too much tarrying. Mrs. Bratten had an engage¬ 
ment to address a very influential group of women on 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


325 


the following Saturday afternoon, and Lois had an 
important part in an Elks’ show, opening on the follow¬ 
ing Monday. In consequence Riley was much relieved 
by their going. Mrs. Bratten was so unreasonably bent 
upon reforming the whole of creation that the Irishman 
could scarcely carry on a conversation with her; and 
Lois—well, Riley’s tender sensibilities revolted, even 
if she were his roommate’s sister. He did his best for 
them, however, and to him Brat was much indebted, for 
it enabled him to be unencumbered in a fashion much 
better than he had had any reason to expect. He evinced 
joy at seeing his family again, and regret at their leaving, 
and then immediately forgot all about them, for he still 
had other and more binding ties. He attended the Com¬ 
mencement exercises, listened to an ardent youth address 
the assemblage in Latin (the only point of interest which 
he recalled was the fact that the Latin speaker addressed 
the Mayor of Boston’s principal suburb and the latter 
did not know that the boy was speaking to him until a 
neighbor nudged him, quite noticeably, in the ribs)—wit¬ 
nessed the presentation of earned and honorary degrees 
and declared, after it was all over, that he “felt as if 
he had been commenced!” He took his degree to a 
photo-art shop to be framed, got it the following day 
and thereafter let it grace the bottom of his steamer 
trunk—traditionally that is what diplomas are for! 

Within three weeks of his graduation, he was steered 
into a lowly position in the main offices of a shipping 
concern, the steering process being the work of Virginia’s 
father, whose liking for Brat had not been reduced by 
further acquaintance with him. The lowly position was 
one of the kind which inevitably leads to a highly lucra¬ 
tive post, and Brat was entirely willing to serve his 
apprenticeship with such prospects before him. He 
took a small apartment with Riley, just out of Harvard 
Square, and they continued their relations just as they 
had during the four years of undergraduate life. 

Riley was carrying on according to custom in the 


326 


WILD ASSES 


Square, albeit without so much of the wild and raucous 
party habit as had characterized his Sophomore and 
Junior years. He was quieting down considerably, and 
gradually came to the point where the excitements of 
other days held no appeal for him. He studied regularly 
enough and sufficiently to ensure his degree, and with his 
spare time he delved into many things which before could 
not have interested him. 

He was still wondering what everything was about, 
but as usual he had to go through the routine of living 
from day to day regardless of whether he could give 
himself good reasons for what he and others did. He 
did considerable moralizing at all times—his old faith 
in the law of compensation was proved to him time and 
again, and these proofs when they came served to 
strengthen and balance his own character. For example, 
when the news came to him that Somerford had been 
apprehended as a thief, stealing from his friends and 
acquaintances in various parts of the University, he 
was not surprised. “It’s a damned shame,” he told Brat. 
“That kid is perfectly all right at heart, but he got into 
the wrong groove! One thing led to another, he needed 
money to carry on in the style to which his friends 
appeared to be accustomed, he appropriated somebody’s 
watch and pawned it, and of course after one misdeed 
like that the others came as natural matters of course. 
He wanted money, just to be able to splurge as the story 
book and movie heroes splurge, so he took a chance and 
got it. Now he has to pay for it!” 

Upon another occasion, a man whom Riley and Brat 
knew but slightly was expelled from the College as a 
result of a complaint from a woman who very shame¬ 
lessly told the Dean that this man had been for three 
years her common law husband and had deserted her. 
The man’s character was immediately blasted. “Just 
another case,” said Riley. “That man was being kept 
by her—she paid his bills, gave him money to spend, 
let him have many things which otherwise would have 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


327 


been unobtainable by him. She made it possible for him 
to travel in the social whirl here as a gold coaster! But 
he had the wrong idea—he thought he could get some¬ 
thing for nothing, and it can’t be done in this bloomin’ 
world. So, now, it serves him right—he has to pay.” 

As the weeks rolled by and Brat became more and 
more tied up with his work, Riley fell into the habit of 
taking charge of Virginia for his roommate. He would 
take her to dinner, go for long rides into the country 
with her, substitute in engagements for Brat, and in vari¬ 
ous other ways try to keep Virginia from becoming fed 
up and bored with herself on account of Brat’s having to 
work so much. Consequently they became better friends 
than most fellows could be with their best friend’s girl. 
He talked to her about everything—poured into her ears 
the philosophy of life which he would have poured into 
Brat had that gentleman not been out of reach most of 
the time. And Virginia, at first somewhat annoyed by 
his talking, gradually came to be very much interested 
in his ideas, his explanations of things. Somehow, by 
accident, many of the topics which he discussed so frankly 
with her were the very things which were closest and 
most painful to her—all of which had inevitable results. 

For a long time, Virginia continued in her conviction 
that she did not want to marry for some time to come, 
but shortly after Brat’s graduation she began to change 
her mind. Little incidents of life which before her trouble 
had been cause for joking on her part had come to have 
a significance which prevented her taking them jok¬ 
ingly. The newspapers, full of reports of how unfor¬ 
tunate girls had had to pay for indiscretions, were a 
daily souvenir of sorrows for her. It seemed that every 
book or story which she tried to read turned upon the 
consequences of misdirected or misused love. Every 
day’s events had some kind of knife for her, and to top 
these irritations, Tom would come along with his philoso¬ 
phizing! Sometimes when he talked she could hardly 
refrain from crying aloud her feelings! He was like 


328 


WILD ASSES 


an avenging angel—but still she liked him and desired 
his company to that of all men except her Brat. 

Poor Tom! He had no idea how his chronic observing 
of life’s little problems was affecting her, so he went 
serenely on his way. One night in late July, he took 
her to a movie in town—Virginia seldom went to movies, 
and upon entering the palace of the silent drama she 
felt that she would have many a laugh at the “romance” 
invariably portrayed in the movies. And indeed she 
did, until the main picture of the program flashed before 
her; it was the story of a young girl and a man, and 
their relations resulted as usual in movies. Virginia 
enjoyed it all for a while, laughing at her companion’s 
caustic criticisms of the play and his humorous comments 
and parodies on the titles and sub-titles flashed on the 
screen. She enjoyed the fun of it, of laughing at some¬ 
one else in trouble, until almost at the very end the 
course of action in the play was indicated by a title 
containing these two lines from Kipling: 

“The Sins ye do two by two 
Ye pay for one by one!” 

And though she laughed even at this, the lines were 
indelibly imprinted on her mind, and, try as she would, 
she could not forget or ignore them and their meaning 
for her. She had been paying like that, alone! One by 
one! One by one! The last line haunted her, jumped 
before her eyes and sung itself into her every thought 
and feeling! One by one! One by one! She’d pay 
no more that way—she would marry Brat at once and 
then they could pay two by two, together—anything but 
this being alone in it! 

Poor Tom! He had no idea of what was going on in 
his little companion’s mind, and without ever giving her 
a thought he began to elucidate upon the thought sug¬ 
gested in those lines; he quoted poetry by yards and rods, 
argued from philosopher to philosopher, and ended in 


THE LAST LONG MILE 


329 


his usual vein, trying to align this thought of Kipling’s 
with his Emersonian dictum. 

Virginia drove Tom back to Cambridge and left him 
there, ostensibly to go home, but instead of going to 
Brookline she turned in the other direction and proceeded 
as fast as she could to Brat’s office in town. 

“Brat dear,” she exclaimed, when she had succeeded in 
getting him to herself in the car, “I want to get married! 
Right away!” 

Brat just looked at her, saying finally, “What’s the 
matter now?” 

“Nothing—except that I can’t stand it to be alone any 
longer. I want to be with you! I can’t be happy this 
way; I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for a month!” 

Brat laughed at that, Virginia said the funniest things, 
without sense half the time. “Well—I don’t know—” he 
began. 

“Brat Bratten!” she interrupted. “You don’t know? 
You’d just better know! We’re going to get married 
just as quickly as it can be done!” 

But Brat demurred. There were difficulties at the 
moment. His earnings and income were as yet much 
too small to warrant any such a step at this time. 

“We’d best wait a while.” 

“We will not!” retorted Virginia. “We’re going to 
get married now or not at all!” 

But they waited, in spite of the effect of this delay 
upon Virginia’s nerves. 

But God created the Blunderbrat to be an economic 
success in the world and it seemed most logical and 
natural for his employers to recognize his worth and 
grant him rapid advancement. Virginia hailed the an¬ 
nouncement of his promotion as the signal for the end 
of her tortures. “I’ve been through hell, Brat dear!” 
she declared in earnestness, when she heard the explana¬ 
tion. “But now it can be ended—and I’m so happy, 
happy! oh, Brat dearest!” She reckoned her ordeal as 
finished—she had paid mentally for her foolishness, and 


330 


WILD ASSES 


now she could forget it all and be happy in the security 
of her wonderful big husband’s safekeeping. 

Brat and Virginia were married just before Christmas, 
two years after their first meeting, and Riley, the Catholic, 
served as best man in a Presbyterian wedding, after which 
he drowned his sorrow as it had never been drowned 
before. 

Brock was also present, but he refused to join Riley in 
the drinking; since coming back to college the preceding 
Mid-Year he had resolutely abstained from any dissi¬ 
pations which might impede his academic and physical 
progress. The night of Brat’s wedding he went home 
and tried to satisfy his desires by writing a long letter 
to Ellen, who, having finished her course at the Boston 
school, was now at home in Dartonville again. 

Brock took his degree the following February, and 
immediately entered the Government service at Washing¬ 
ton, with every prospect of rapid advancement. He was 
enjoying life, liberty and pursuit of happiness, all of 
which enjoyment centered about a certain little town in 
Ohio, a place which he had seen but once in his life, and 
then during just a week-end from Washington. Yet on 
that occasion he had exclaimed to Ellen, “Oh, by damn, 
Ellen! You’re too damned good to be true! I was 
never so happy in all my bloody life!” 

And Ellen had loved him the more for the way he 
expressed it; why she didn’t even blush when Scotty 
later made an irrelevant little remark about his wanting 
“to have a son in Harvard 1947.” 

In fact, she even so brazenly suggested that he hurry 
and make money, “for 22 from 47 = 25, so there’s not 
much time to spare!” 

She suspected that Scotty would not waste any time. 




An education gives one the implements necessary in 
economic life, to use as one sees fit—hut it fails to 
cultivate any ideas of fitness, and worthy ideals are not 
the result of spontaneous generation! 

Said Riley: “Intelligence means serviceable living in 
our society . . . there are certain enduring laws. . . . 
Which is why the single standard of morals is a dream 
and nothing more! You can talk all you want hut the 
undeniable fact remains that if a girl goes beyond the 
limit and gets caught, she’s cooked! . . . Theoretically 
a girl can do whatever she wants to do, but actually she 
cant, without paying for it, because she is born into a 
condition of life which qualifies her to sit on a pedestal 
and receive the plaudits and adoration of us poor men — 
if she wants to do the things which are implied under the 
single standard, she immediately comes down from that 
pedestal whereon she was born to sit—which is often 
done, usually for some inconsequential principle or some 
more consequential but temporary pleasure 

“Not every virgin is virtuous! Physiological virtue is 
too generally confused nowadays with the real Virtue 
which means worthiness of character 

Now ask, “What price, this Learning?” 

Or, “Which avenue to Athena?” 






















CHAPTER VI 
Changing Times? 

Riley was the star visitor at the Bratten household. 
He was Brat’s best friend—he was, in truth, the best 
kind of friend that a man could have. To say that he 
was a frequent visitor there would be a mild descrip¬ 
tion—he spent most of his spare hours with the Brat- 
tens, for Virginia found in him the supplement of her 
husband, a friend who could extend to her the intellectual 
consolations which Brat himself would never have 
thought of. 

And Riley, despite his cleverness, never suspected that 
he had played any central part in their drama. Indeed, 
wise as he was, he never realized until years later that 
there had been, or could have been, any real drama in the 
life which he and his college friends had led. 

Riley was not much of a success in the world—he 
did not value money as worth his efforts. He knew that 
the worst possibilities never come true, never happen; 
he felt that the tragedy of life lies in living on after the 
climax or crisis; and he knew that he would live and be 
as happy without rushing through life chasing dollars 
as he would be with millions. He had no illusions about 
life—he knew that he would be better if he had some 
illusions. But when he thought of this, he laughed at 
himself—he still had a sense of humor! 

He met the Beau on Tremont Street one cold winter 
day, and asked, “What’s up now, Beau?” 

To which his old roommate, smiling despite much 
misfortune, said, “Well—there’s not much to do—I’m 
still hoping to get into medical school some day, but I 
can’t get into a college to get my credits! I don’t know 
what I’ll do next.” 

“That’s a shame, Beau.” Riley was genuinely sympa- 

331 


332 


WILD ASSES 


thetic. “I suppose you have no use for Harvard after 
all the trouble they’ve caused you?” 

“For ’em?” replied his companion, with a half-hearted 
laugh. “If I ever have a son, he’ll go there and get 
through and make a reputation for himself, or I’ll dis¬ 
own him!” The Beau squared his jaw determinedly as 
he finished. 

“Once a Harvard man, always a Harvard man!” 
laughed Riley. 

Afterwards, many months afterwards, Riley recalled 
this incident. McCarthy’s younger brother was entering 
Harvard that fall and Riley gladly advised him. “Get 
the right idea, Bobby—don’t start in thinking that the 
system is all wrong! It isn’t at all; it’s a tough system, 
but the man who can play it and win out with something 
to the good at graduation is a damned good man! Just 
use your head, play the game, forget your pride now and 
then, and realize that you’re just one little insignificant 
speck in a big university—play the game as they want to 
play it—you can’t fail to make good, and you’ll be a 
damned good man!” 

Four years it required for Riley to come to that precise 
conclusion, and he knew that his advice was lost on this 
boy, for he would have to learn for himself, just as he 
had done, that “dust and ashes aren’t fit to make a 
treasure!” But Tom Riley was a born adviser! 
******** 

On a Monday in late September, six years after the 
war, Harvard Square presented a scene of hustle and 
bustle. Standing in the doorway of the Greek’s Fruit 
and Flower Shop, two instructors were watching the 
passing show. 

“You know,” remarked the first instructor, waving his 
hand to indicate the scene before him. “They’re getting 
so they all look alike to me—every Freshman class is the 
same Freshman class, just different faces!” 

“Just the same!” replied the second instructor. “I’m 


CHANGING TIMES? 


333 


getting used to it, though. I know exactly what to expect 
—the same old classes, the same old routine, the same old 
excuses for work not done, the same old effort to influence 
the same men toward the same illusions—everything just 
the same, year after year, class after class!” 

“The same crowd—just different faces!” mumbled the 
first instructor, as they continued to watch the passing 
show. 

“And so it is with all of us in these changing times— 
we’re the same old crowd of human beings as worried and 
fretted and laughed and sang a hundred and a thousand 
years ago—with different faces, that’s all!” Thus spake 
Tom Riley to himself as he strolled past the two cynical 
instructors whose comments he had overheard. 



The high gods must chuckle at even the wisest of men, 
for even the wisest have a plethora of wearying troubles 
whose disproportionate magnification is comically appar¬ 
ent to the Olympians. 

Said Riley: “The price of Learning is purely relative. 
There is an adequately human education in the art of 
love, yet this hub of our life, this creed by which men 
live, is entirely ignored in our institutions dedicated to 
Learning” 












































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